


Some Ties Were Never Meant To Be Broken

by Blue_Finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Jump, Episode: s05e13 Coda, Explicit Sexual Situations in later chapters, F/M, M/M, Spoilers for all Five Seasons, True Love Never Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Finch/pseuds/Blue_Finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can't write a decent summary for this. I guess it's all in the tags.<br/>I promise this does have a happy if different Rinch ending.<br/>I think you'll be pleased if you take the chance to read this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Desperate Leap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John realizes too late that his dying may not actually save Harold  
> In fact, it might do exactly the opposite.  
> Beta Read by Managerie

 

John Reese weakly smiled as he watched Harold open the door to the rooftop across the way from the one John would be making his last stand. This was the right thing to do. Harold Finch had already given too much of himself to a world that would never know the sacrifices the genius had made for it. It didn’t need his very life as the final immolation. Harold deserved more than his death in recompense.

Maybe the world could never repay Harold for all he had done to save it, but John sure could. Harold had saved him, gave him a purpose, helped him become the hero he always wanted to be and fixed the broken man John had become. If John had to give up his life to repay that debt, then so be it.

Only as the door closed behind Harold, John’s conviction wavered. The finality of cutting the ties that for five years had bound them together with his death shook him to his core when the last thing John saw was the defeated slump of Harold’s shoulders. John had been so focused on repaying his debt and keeping Finch alive, knowing that with Harold gone he wouldn’t last a year, that he’d hadn’t given any thought that Harold could possibly feel the same way. _Oh god! What if Harold can’t live in a world wit_ _hout_ _me in it?_

Harold had begged him to let the upload take care of itself and get out of there. But, John was being too noble to listen. Now he had to get the hell down off this roof; get to Harold. John’s sacrifice would be for naught if Harold just gave up and let himself die from his wound.

So far Reese had been quick enough to down the first handful of Samaritan’s soldiers, but the next three spread out. One nailed him in the shoulder of his gun hand making it hard for John to aim accurately; another fired a round into John’s leg breaking the bone, thereby taking John to the ground effectively and making him an easy target.

They moved in for the kill. If not for the Kevlar vest he’d put on when his only mission for the day had been to keep Harold safe while he used his hacking skills to defeat once and for all the hard to kill AI, the multiple rounds they fired into his chest would have been overkill; he would have been dead from the first shot in seconds.

The vest took the brunt of the bullets being fired at him, their impact probably breaking some ribs under the body armor, except one of the three agents was using armor piercing rounds. More than one tore through the Kevlar, none hitting anything vital, except it hurt like hell and John clenched his eyes shut with the pain. The three stopped firing when they saw the blood flowing freely from John’s chest staining his pristine white shirt and John’s eyes closing. John could sense the three assassins moving in without seeing them and he cursed his damn stubbornness. He was going to die, Harold too, despite John’s grand gesture.

John waited for them to come close, his gun ready; he was going to take one or two of the assholes with him. Only seconds passed and nothing, then he heard the sound of boots on the concrete running away from him. John opened his eyes, thinking for a split second that he had been hurt worse than this and he would get down off this roof, get to Finch if he had to crawl to do it.

Then he looked eastward, “Fuck!” _Sorry for the language,_ _Harold._

~ * ~

John was no longer on the roof; he was standing on the street a short distance away watching the burning building collapse to the ground into a pile of rubble. How can he be standing with a broken leg, on the street no less? He looked away from the disaster scene and down at himself; his suit was as immaculate as it had been when he had donned it the earlier that day. He waggled his shoulder and then ran his hands over his chest and stomach, no bullet holes anywhere.

_What the hell?_

Only before John could figure that out, emergency vehicles began arriving at the scene of the missile strike with the exception of an ambulance that stopped in front of the building adjacent, Harold’s building. He saw some paramedics going through the double glass doors. Maybe someone had found the injured man and called them. He made to walk towards the building, yet without taking a step he was inside the lobby.

The paramedics were already tending to a wounded man wearing the black garb of a Samaritan operative lying on the white tiled floor; one medic was using a manual resuscitator, another doing chest compressions, while a third injected various medications into an IV line already running into the injured man’s arm.

It wasn’t Finch, so John turned away and went to search the building. He entered the elevator, but his hand went through the panel not connecting with anything solid as he tried to hit the top floor button. John jerked his hand back before tentatively reaching for the panel again, with the same result, as well as when he touched the elevator walls; his hand would disappear into the solid objects. Giving up using the elevator, he took the stairs, actually walking and ascending the stairs one step at a time. But it seemed more like he was above the floor his feet not really making contact with the tile or carpeting.

Floor by floor he searched for Harold until he found him sitting in a chair in the lobby of the twelfth floor, shoulder and head leaning against the wall as his pain-filled eyes stared out the window at the smoke billowing up from the burning remnants of John’s destroyed building. “It was supposed to be me, John,” Harold kept repeating over and over brokenly as he labored to breathe.

Harold was dying in front of him and John couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. The paramedics! He had to find a way to let them know. John just thought about them and there he was in the main lobby watching them still work unsuccessfully on Samaritan’s goon.

As John watched, trying to find a way to get Finch help, one of the EMTs shouted ‘we’re losing him’. The next moment the figure of a man identical to the one lying on the floor was standing next to his body looking down at himself before he turned and walked away into a bright light.

If John could still be startled he would have jumped when someone next to him warned him, “You taking this one you better be quick before someone gets him first.”

“Wait! You can see and hear me?” John asked in disbelief.

“Rookies! The old man groused. “Yes, but we ain’t got time for introductions if you're gonna help your friend upstairs!” John felt himself being pushed towards the fallen Samaritan soldier. “It’s gonna hurt like hell but you just dive right in like you’re jumping into a pool. Now Go! It’s not your time yet John.”

Reese was desperate to save Harold so he did as he was instructed. He dove towards the floor and the body on it. The pain was excruciating as he felt as if he were was floating in a river of fire, then the agony eased as he swam for the glimmering light that was above him.

John opened his eyes, looking up into the face of the female EMT putting away the defibrillator paddles. “Lie still,” she cautioned him when he tried to stir, “We’re going to put this backboard under you now. Then we’re going to get you into the ambulance and to the nearest hospital. You’re going to fine Evan.”

“ _Evan_?’ John croaked, then swallowed and rasped, “My friend’s hurt. Twelfth floor. Please? Please help him. Please help him.”

“You just take it easy. One of us will go to check on your friend. You just relax okay?” The EMT smiled to reassure him.

John tried to stay conscious but it was hard as the drugs and weakness from Evan’s injuries pulled him under. There was a flurry of activity as someone shouted, “We have another gunshot victim on the twelfth floor.”

“What the hell went on here?” was shouted by another.

John didn’t hear anything else.

~ * ~

John, Evan Ardent according to his hospital chart and all the ID in his wallet, stood before the mirror above the sink in the bathroom of his hospital room. It was still a shock to look in the mirror and see a different face. Harder still was separating Evan’s memories – two lives lived inside his head now – from his own, they were so alike.

John had thought Samaritan's soldiers were all evil minded minions of an AI that wanted to be God. In Evan’s case nothing could have been further from the truth. He had been in the Army like John, enlisting because he wanted to serve his country and the people in it. Like John, he had excelled in military skills, except it was the NSA that had recruited him.

Ardent had ended up an agent the same as Shaw, working The Relevant numbers for Research, but he had also been duped into doing some questionable missions by them the same as the CIA had done with John. Evan was still working for the NSA when Samaritan had replaced The Machine. Ardent went on mission after mission for the NSA and Samaritan, some actually did prevent terrorist attacks, but others were nothing more than executions of citizens whose loyalties had come under question.

Evan had already been questioning whether what he was doing was right when he had been dispatched that day he had been shot to eliminate the terrorist who had released the ICE-9 virus. This was something he fully intended to do, kill a terrorist. Who would release a deadly computer virus if not a terrorist? He and his partner had been directed to an older man with a limp who hardly seemed like he could harm a flea let alone release a deadly computer virus.

Evan had balked at killing their disabled target who barely staggered into an elevator when they had entered the building, his partner had turned on him for doing so. They had fired upon one another as the missile struck the building next door. His partner had run away fearing their building might be next. The real Evan had died, as it was his time. Now here John was new identity, new body, and nowhere to go.

Reese was being released tomorrow, only a week after he, _Evan,_ had been shot. John had saved Harold’s life for now by body jumping, but he had no idea what had become of his best friend. When he had asked about the other man, Evan had been told Harold had left the hospital against doctor’s orders.

John didn’t know what to do with himself; Evan had been inexplicably let go by his employers and finding Harold would be nigh impossible if he went off to die alone. Harold thought John and The Machine were gone – their mission had been Finch’s purpose too. What if without TM giving them numbers and John at his side would Harold even want to go on?

The first thing John did was go to a liquor store to buy a bottle and then rent a room in a fleabag hotel. John died, and almost died again as Evan, and still he didn’t know if Harold was alive. He didn’t think anyone would blame him for getting drunk, not even Harold.

 ~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The man known as John Reese is gone, but John's life force isn't
> 
> Next what happens to Harold when he leaves the hospital


	2. You Win, John!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold doesn't want to live without John.  
> Only no matter how much he wants death to take him, it doesn't.  
> He begrudgingly accepts the gift of life that John gave him  
> Harold says a final goodbye.

                                                                              

“No!”

“No!”

Harold tried to plead, to beg John to leave the upload to itself and to come down off that roof, but his friend wasn’t listening anymore. Mr. Reese had said his final goodbye. Harold’s brave soldier was going to die for him and there was nothing Finch could do about it this time.  

Harold couldn’t listen to the sound of gunfire any longer – John fighting his last good fight. Nor could he wait around for it to stop – the ensuing silence could only mean his partner was lost to him forever. Harold Finch slowly staggered towards the rooftop access door.

The building’s roof was wavering like a mirage in front of him; he could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone make it to the other building before the missile hit to at least die with John like it was meant to be. With every wobbling step he took he held back a scream or a painful cry.

Almost to the doorway, Harold turned to look at the NYC skyline. He could see the roofs of the other buildings where Harold had saved John’s life twice before. “Goodbye.” Harold told his wonderful, beautiful child that had never grasped protecting him never took priority over everything else. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he turned to exit the rooftop; the two had made sure there would not be a third rescue.

He stopped the elevator at the twelfth floor when the lights overhead and on the panel flickered. He felt the barely discernible tremor through the floor of the elevator.

Finch could see out the floor to ceiling windows of the lobby and watched with horror as the building John was on imploded into itself, crumbling in a gigantic plume of smoke, fire, and dust to ground. Harold had to force himself to move to a chair before he collapsed to the floor, and flopped down onto the seat, not holding back the sob wrenched out of him this time. Everything hurt.

The missile had impacted with the transmitter, taking out everything below the dish. Harold felt like his heart was being ripped out watching the building crumble. John was gone!

“It was supposed to be me, John” Harold choked out as he labored to breathe; Mr. Reese was supposed to live, not him. It was his mistakes that gave Samaritan life not John’s, destroying it was his cross to bear. Harold never _wanted_ to be the martyr, he would have rather lived, but he needed to make the ultimate sacrifice for all those who lost their lives because of him. With his and The Machine’s death, John could find a normal life and love without the conflict involved with their mission getting in the way. That had given Harold solace facing his impending death.

Why had he underestimated John Reese? He should have known John would find a way out of that federal reserve vault to get to him; the former Ranger had never failed him before. Harold shouldn’t have locked John up; they could have found a way to upload The Machine’s core code and lived or died trying together. Again Harold’s good intentions had fatal results.

Harold rested his head against the wall; this was as far as he was going. He now wanted to die and welcomed death. There was no life without John Reese in it.

As he stared out the window with unblinking eyes feeling his life force trickle away Harold didn't even realize he kept repeating, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way, John.”

There was a movement just at the edge of his peripheral vision that caused Harold to turn his head just a bit from his deathwatch out the window. It had to be a hallucination caused by his weakened state due to blood loss and pain; a tall figure in a white shirt and bespoke suit hovered next to him briefly then disappeared. A tear rolled down Finch’s cheek as he closed his eyes, “John?” he gasped with one last breath.

~*~

Harold’s eyes fluttered opened then closed tight before they opened again slowly, adjusting to the glaring lights above him. When he could see without bright spots blinding him, he tried to speak when he saw a woman in a pale blue lab coat standing near him.

The woman reached down and her hand touched his shoulder gently to hold him still, “Don’t try to talk, Mr. Osprey. You’re in the recovery room at Presbyterian. We were able to remove the bullet lodged near the top of your stomach successfully, but we had to keep you intubated because of fluid buildup in your lungs. When they are clear we can remove the tube. Other than that and two cracked ribs where the bullet penetrated the body cavity, you sustained no other significant damage. You got lucky; your rib cage caught most of the impact.”

“I’m Doctor Rorish, you’re attending.” The older dark haired woman smiled and squeezed his shoulder before removing her hand. “My ward nurses will take good care of you Harold when they move you to your room in an hour. You were fortunate an EMT found you in that deserted building. They were treating another gunshot victim in the building’s lobby. If the medic hadn’t found you…” She paused a bit before continuing, “Your prognosis is very good; with no unforeseen complications you should be able to go home in a few weeks.”

After injecting some medication into his IV drip and adjusting the controls of its regulator, the doctor excused herself. “I gave you something for the pain along with a sedative. It will keep you groggy or asleep so you may not see me for a while, but I will be checking on your progress daily. Goodbye for now Mr. Osprey.” The woman turned and was gone.   

Harold closed his heavy eyelids as the sedatives pulled him back under. The drug induced slumber was not peaceful and was filled with repeated disturbing images like a film strip of a horror film playing over and over of Harold limping determinedly towards the door of a building intending to get to the rooftop for John and save him once more. Only the building explodes before Finch can get there, the shock of the blast knocking Finch to the pavement on his back.

Harold awoke trying to scream ‘No!’ but the tube in his airway only let him make a choked gurgling noise around it. A nurse was in his room immediately, attempting to calm him down unsuccessfully with Harold struggling to call out. Another nurse flew into the room and hurriedly injected something into his IV.

When Harold next opened his eyes his throat felt raw and burned slightly, but the plastic tube helping him to breathe was gone. Although his body felt lethargic his mind was now alert. Dr. Rorish was standing over him, her brows knitted with concern. When she saw Harold had opened his eyes her face noticeably brightened but immediately turned as apologetic as her words sounded, “Welcome back Mr. Osprey. The initial combination of drugs I gave you had some negative side effects and we had to keep you heavily sedated. Now that your lungs have cleared and you can breathe on your own now I’ll only need to give you pain medication and maybe very mild sedatives from now on to help you sleep.”

She then turned to a laptop mounted on a rolling stand. She hummed her approval at what she read, her expression brightening. “Everything looks good. I’m still optimistic that we will get you out of here in a week. One of the staff physical therapists will come in soon and talk to you about a regimen they can do with you to help us do that.”        

The doctor looked at her watch and said, “It’s almost time for breakfast. I put you on a special diet and they should be bringing your meal soon. I’ll check on you in the morning.” And with a ‘good day' she quickly turned and left, off to check on her other patients Harold assumed.      

Alone in the room Harold had time to gather himself and take stock of his surroundings and his situation. Obviously he wasn’t going to die as he had wished. Harold really didn’t feel fortunate to have been found and saved before death could claim him. The outstanding medical staff at Presbyterian had kept him alive.

The date scribbled on the daily task whiteboard hanging on the wall was dated a week after he’d been shot and John was lost.

When a food service worker dressed in dark blue brought in his tray, one of the nurses who followed after helped him sit up to eat. Harold gave thought briefly to just not eating, but with his luck they would just force feed him if starving himself threatened to undo all their hard work. Besides, his stomach growled hungrily for nourishment. _Traitor!_

_All right John you win. I don’t know how I will do it, but I’ll live on without you._

Harold ate the bland meal.

~*~

The doctor had released Harold Osprey against medical advice, but Harold really didn’t care about his own well-being; he would be okay or not.

Harold had to get out of there when he heard through scuttlebutt that the other gunshot victim they were treating was dressed in all black when the EMTs had found him. Harold knew the injured man was one of the Samaritan agents who’d he’d seen entering the building as the elevator door closed, the ones he thought had followed him up on the roof when a noise startled him and he raised the gun he carried.

Harold didn’t know which AI, if any, might have survived their battle to the death. He wanted to take no chances of it having been Samaritan. If it still existed virus free it might track him down to kill him. Finch wasn’t worried about himself, let Samaritan end him. He just didn’t want anyone at the hospital to be harmed or killed as well.

Harold had taken a taxi, with a slight detour beforehand, to JFK and booked a flight to Osprey’s hometown in Iowa in that name. He checked in at the airline desk and turned in his ticket. He then went into the men’s restroom and paid a surprised tourist a thousand dollars – money still stashed in one of his and John’s hidey holes – to exchange clothes with him and board the flight. He handed the tourist the boarding pass, a return ticket and another five hundred when they had finished dressing in one another's clothes. “Go spend a day or so in Des Moines, my treat.” The man nodded, a confused look on his face even as he laughed, “Sure okay, for fifteen hundred bucks I might spend two.” Both left the restroom headed in different directions.

Harold did have a destination in mind; he couldn't stay in New York, not with memories of his late partner everywhere he turned. But first, he needed to go somewhere and gave the cabbie the Baxter Street address to John’s loft. In the two years they had remained hidden from Samaritan, Harold had kept tabs on the apartment. The AI had never found anything to link any of them to the home he’d purchased for John, but they had taken no chances going there; only the one safe house, its location not found until he had made the mistake of going to the cafe he had taken Grace to years ago.

Harold took the elevator to the loft's floor and found the spare key hidden in the wicker basket of a fake potted plant, how original. When he opened the door and walked inside, he was bombarded with memories so painful to recall that Harold almost fell to his knees.

The apartment and its contents looked the same as the day John had been evicted from it when he had to become Detective Riley. If it hadn’t been for the layers of fine dust coating everything, it looked like John could return any moment.

The oak bed Harold had especially made for Mr. Reese’s height was unmade still, waiting for John’s eventual return and its sheets to be changed, its blanket and coverlet to be straightened.

Harold limped heavily over to it, removed his shoes and lay down. He choked back a sob pulling the dusty covers over himself. His partner would never lie in this bed while holding Harold close ever again. Exhaustion claimed him as he silently grieved.

The next morning Harold laid out a suit – a favorite of John’s Harold had left hanging in the closet – to wear later and dressed in some sweat clothes he had also kept there. He then went about the apartment to gather some things he’d given John that Harold cherished now. They were small enough to carry in his bag.

Harold smiled grimly when he removed the padlock from the heavy door lock and opened John's Closet of Doom. The same weapons and armament were in there when Harold had had to hide inside the closest three years ago from one of their numbers. Harold tried not to think that any of these guns could have mown down hundreds of Samaritan agents. _Damn it John, why did you take just your handgun up on that roof? You still had access to weapons like these!_

His anger was short lived when he found one of Bear's chew toys in the kitchen where Harold had headed last to clean out the bits of shriveled and moldy food still left in the refrigerator. There probably hadn’t been much left in there in the first place. John never kept much, even in Riley’s apartment. The years of being ready to move at a moment’s notice, leaving nothing behind had stuck with John even after leaving the military and the CIA.

As for Bear, Harold felt mixed emotions. He loved that dog and wanted to find a way to take the Malinois with him, yet feared having the dog around would just be too painful. He decided to leave Bear in the loving care of the Fuscos.

The last thing Finch did was pull out the laptops he had left at the apartment and searched. The world seemed to be recovering on its own from the virus he had released. If there was anything to point out either AI’s still existed, he didn’t find it.

Harold checked on the Samaritan agent hospitalized at Presbyterian. His name was Evan Ardent, and interestingly enough, a recent former government employee. He’d been released from the hospital the day after Harold had left it. Curious and wary, Finch easily hacked into NYPD surveillance footage and found a shot of Ardent entering a liquor store and another of him renting a room at a rundown hotel which was surveyed closely for drug users and pushers and their deals going down.

Harold momentarily felt for the man who now had no job and a bit of deja vous which he shook off. A killer for hire without a target did give Harold hope Samaritan was gone; destroyed permanently by his creation.

Harold hired a reputable cleaning service through its website to come in weekly to keep the vacant apartment clean, rented a car to drive to Arlington, Virginia and arranged to return the rental to the Avis drop-off at JFK, and booked a flight to Italy under the alias Harold Tallis. When finished Finch got up from the table where he had set up and put the laptops in his bag along with the rest of the things he’d gathered and dressed in the suit.

Ready to go, Finch picked up the bag, said a final farewell to John’s home, and with a heart still hurting forced himself to walk out the door. On the way out to meet the driver delivering the rental car he dropped the apartment key off with the building super so he could let the cleaning service into the apartment.

~*~

Harold placed the bouquet made up of the flowers John Reese had said once were his favorites – what had brought up that discussion he couldn't recall – in the vase by the gravestone of John Henry Tallis _._ Harold knew the soldier who was supposed to have been laid to rest there wasn’t really buried in the grave. The CIA had faked John Tallis’ death and turned him into John Reese, a man who never existed except in a deeply layered secret CIA database.

There had been no human remains found in the building’s rubble so there was no dated stone marking such in Potter’s Field.

So the empty grave was where Harold said his last goodbye to his friend, his partner, the last great love of Harold’s life and his brave soldier.  

“Goodbye John. I’ll never forget or stop loving you.”

Harold held back the moisture filling his eyes until he was inside the rental car then unashamedly wept until there were no more tears left to shed.        

Five hours later he was on the plane bound for Italy to find the only person still alive who loved him.  

        

~~*~~                   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three: Harold and Evan six months later


	3. You Can Never Go Back Again, No Matter How Hard You Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold and Grace spend six months together  
> John's life tailspins living as Evan Avant  
> The Subway lair is discovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their own uptake on Harold and Grace's future together  
> Mine is not them becoming lovers again just the best of friends

 

Harold Tallis, the name Finch was using and the one his former fiancée knew him by now, returned the wave Grace gave him before she opened the door to the taxi and got in. In a little over ninety minutes Grace Ellsworth would be back in the tiny cottage in Florence they had shared for the past five months and continue living the life Harold had arranged for her over two years ago.

He and Grace had tried to make it work between them; they really had. They still loved each other just not as an engaged couple anymore. Grace had even kissed his cheek before hugging him close, “I’ll always love you Harold, and if you ever need me for anything, I’m just a phone call and a twenty minute train ride away.”

When the tail lights were nothing more than two tiny dots of red as the cab headed east on Via Pomonte en route to the Settebagni train station, Harold closed the polished mahogany door to the small two story stone, brick, and mortar villa, its second floor balcony overlooking the Tiber River.

Harold placed the key the caretaker had left under the one of the many pots of geraniums lined up in front of the contemporary house – the tall, weathered, and slightly cracked one closest to the door – into a bowl on the stand by the entryway. He paused briefly to look in the mirror on the wall above, pulled a handkerchief from the left front pocket of the slacks he wore, reached behind his glasses to dab at his still tear moistened eyes, and turned to limp heavily towards the double glass doors opening onto the balcony and stepped outside.

The setting sun had turned the sky various shades of red that matched the multitude of geraniums in the numerous clay pots and hanging baskets that covered every available floor and wall space of the terrace as well as those in the terracotta pots lining the wide balustrade. Harold sat down heavily on one of the white wicker patio chairs. It was as if he and John had sat out there only yesterday not three years ago; they had stayed at Harold’s home in Rome spending three days touring the city, waiting on the several suits Harold’s tailor, Gianni, was making for John, and reconnecting physically and emotionally.

Harold snuffled and sighed heavily. No matter how hard he tried to put John’s memory along with the life and love they shared into the past, his mind along with his heart refused to let John go.

And because of that, the only person left alive that cared for him was walking out of his life. Not entirely, only the live happily ever after together one they had struggled to create. Grace had made Harold promise that they would keep in touch and just be there for one another – as friends. Harold had no doubt the sweet wonderful woman he had once fallen in love with would make sure of it. Grace was indeed the human anomaly the Machine had pointed out to him ten years ago, but even someone as uniquely caring, understanding, and forgiving as she could not compete with a ghost for his passionate love.

Harold’s body wracked with his silent sobs as he looked beyond the river as the colors of the sunset oranged. pinked, and blued until the sky was dark and the lights of Rome twinkled on.

 _So what do I do now, John? I tried to return to the life you wanted for me and be happy. I failed...miserably_.

 ~*~

Harold had spent a week staying at a hotel in Florence after arriving from New York City via Rome before he attempted to seek out Grace. Packing up the reminders he had of John while also cleaning up Reese’s loft instead of just hiring a service to do it and then taking a transatlantic flight after having major surgery only two weeks before was not one of the best decisions his genius mind had made in his life. He was tired, hurting everywhere that it was possible to hurt, and still grieving to the point of being ill.

So from total exhaustion along with the heavy dose of painkillers Harold took before falling into bed flat on his back and feet on the floor still in shoes, he had slept forty-eight dream-free hours straight. After waking up on the third day of his stay, he went into the bathroom to check the dressing that still covered his wound – thankfully the bandage was stiff with dried seepage not blood and the hole it protected was scabbing over. Harold followed the doctor’s after-care instructions using the supplies he had been provided by replacing the soiled material with three smaller swatches of heavy gauze held in place by tearable medical tape and covered that with a clear plastic square with adhesive backed edges before showering and shaving away days of letting himself go.

Harold dressed into the casual clothes he’d worn once undercover working a number and left at the loft. His one and only suit now, the one he had worn out of John’s apartment, had been picked up by one of the hotel staff to be cleaned. Dressed, feeling slightly better, and focused on his reason for coming to this country again Harold pulled the laptops from his bag and proceeded to set them up – thankfully the electrical outlets in the hotel were set up for either European or American power plugs. When the sandwiches and tea he’d ordered from room service had been delivered, he powered up his computers and set to work while he ate.

Harold hacked into the database of Grace Ellsworth’s current place of employment, the Uffizi Gallery, after finding out she no longer worked at the job he’d set up for Grace two years ago. She gave special guided tours of the museum four days a week to tourists who had booked them in advance in lieu of waiting in the long queues to see the Gallery. In her personnel file Harold was not surprised to read that she loved spending her days off painting the sights of Florence.

Harold decided it would be best that she first saw him in a public place rather than showing up at her door one evening unannounced and the following day would be it; he’d catch up with her at the end of her shift.

Only Harold had to change his plans to reveal himself when after checking Grace’s work schedule for the day, he read a note that her supervisor had given her that afternoon off to paint at the Piazzale Michelangelo, a piazza with panoramic views of the city, a twenty minute walk from the gallery.

Grace still resided at the Lungarno Serristori cottage leased in Ellsworth’s name across the Arno River in San Nicollo; another five minutes from the gallery and even less from the piazza itself. They would be close enough to go to her home and talk if she wanted to hear him out.

Harold had found her at her easel painting a view from the piazza of parts of the city beyond the river. There were tourists and locals, some couples holding hands, walking about the square viewing the monumental and bronze replica of the statue of David by Michelangelo, the rock and floral gardens, or standing at the various overlooks taking in the beauty of Florence at a distance.

Harold was able to watch his former fiancée paint from nearby unnoticed in the crowd of people milling about. Grace’s back was to him, but he was close enough to see that she was painting the Basilica Santa Croce – as viewed from Piazzale Michelangelo; already on canvas were the buildings of varied hues surrounding the Basilica, buildings and homes on the far side became smaller as they spread up and across the base of the Apennine Mountains – blue green and eons old.

Harold was breathless to see how much her artistry has improved since he last watched her paint; maybe his barely there gasp is what drew her attention and why she turned around.

Harold smiled; after various and quickly fleeting emotions crossed her face, Grace smiled back. She didn’t react like a woman looking at a ghost from her past as Harold had anticipated, but someone who is unexpectedly surprised by a visit from someone she had hoped, but never expected to see again.

Grace stood unmoving, watching as if she might expect Harold to disappear any second. Harold tried not to limp noticeably as he moved towards her, reaching out when he was close enough to touch to take her hand and urge her to sit on the granite bench a few feet from where she had set up.

When they were seated, Grace kept a firm hold on the hand that had grasped hers, refusing to let it go and gripping it tightly. She tried to speak and cleared her throat of its hoarseness before saying, “You’re alive.”

Harold responded, “Yes, I am, and here with you.

Grace hummed nervously before censuring his response, “That was not a question. I had no proof to substantiate it, but somehow I knew you were alive. I’ve believed it ever since I was handed an envelope with a new identity and told to start a new life in the country we both loved.”

Grace looked him in the eyes, the expression on her face saying ‘no more lies’, while she waved a hand around them, “This place, this life, it was all your doing; wasn’t it.”

Harold had reassured her he would tell her everything she needed to know, but not there in the public square.

“My house is only a three minute walk from here; of course I think you know that. Shall we go there?” Grace suggested and at his nod of yes, let go of his hand, packed up her things, to walk alongside him the short distance to the cottage.

Grace asked him to sit on the dated yet immaculate and comfortable sofa while she put her things away, washed up, and changed out of her ‘paint’ clothes into something comfortable before fixing them tea with finger sandwiches.

“It’s Sencha green. I always kept some around, a tiny reminder of you. It’s still your favorite...isn’t it?” Grace seemed unsure of herself as she indicated the cups of tea steaming on the platter she set on the coffee table. Now that she was going to hear about what had happened the past six years with Harold and how those things had affected her life she was becoming apprehensive. Harold sensed that in the stiff way she sat down next to him.

The next hour he watched Grace’s face run the gamut of emotions – disbelief, shock, horror, anger, sadness, sympathy – as he told her about his life from the time his business partner Nathan and he had watched the towers crumble on the news. They had been so busy with their own interests they didn’t even know about the tragedy until hours after it happened and decided they could do something to prevent such a thing from happening again. And they had. They created a supercomputer that could ‘think’ as well as survey.

Harold didn’t give her all the details, he still wasn’t sure if it was safe to do so, just what was important. He just told her that what had started out to be a noble endeavor had ending up costing Nathan his life and crippling himself. That was when Harold had pretended to be dead, not only to keep her safe, but to continue in secret a mission Nathan had started by using the backdoor into their surveillance system to save lives of people the government deemed irrelevant.

Harold told Grace she had become one of those irrelevant numbers because of John Greer, a man whose vision was that mankind’s future should be decided by an artificial intelligence such as the one Harold created. After failing to gain control of Harold’s machine, Greer had stolen the basic programming written for another AI, the project of one of Harold’s MIT classmates. Greer had altered its code to propagate his vision of how the world should be changed by the AI.

That was why Grace had been kidnapped, as a way to lure Harold out into the open; Harold was the only man who could stop Greer’s plans and he wanted to kill Harold. Harold had arranged for Grace to be given a new identity where Greer’s machine could never find her, to keep her safe from harm or being used as a pawn in Greer’s game ever again.

That incident had basically been the beginning of a war between two artificial intelligences and Harold’s five man army against Greer’s unlimited manpower with Harold trying to keep the world from being ground beneath Samaritan's heel.

John, the man who gave her the new identification and advised her to start a new life, had been Harold’s partner through it all, had died during the last battle of their war saving him and now here Harold was honoring his partner’s sacrifice by finding a life far from the violence and pain that had been Harold’s world since the Ferry Bombing.

Grace was angry about being lied to all those years, surprisingly not just at Harold himself, but at the men who had made Harold’s life hell. Grace was visibly upset that Harold thought his only option was for the both of them to live a lie and that he never tried to find another alternative.

Harold finished with a lowering of head and shoulders in defeat. Grace was angry with him and rightly so. His head lifted as quickly as the pins in his neck would allow with Grace’s words.

“Right or wrong, what was done is in the past and can’t be undone. All we can do is move forward Harold. I want to try.” Grace had tugged at his hand and pulled him into a comforting hug. “You and I have gone through enough.”

She was of the same mind as he that they couldn't just jump back into their relationship, they would have to reacquaint themselves, especially on her part getting to know the real Harold this time.

The first two months had been almost perfect. Harold’s grief over losing John had lessened with every happy day he spent with Grace. He had even moved out of the hotel into Grace’s extra bedroom after the first month they spent ‘dating’, touring the museums, galleries, and the historic buildings of Florence. Intimacy was not quite something they were ready for.

The second month they started taking the train, day trips to Bologna, Perugia, Rome, Naples, cities they laughingly choose by one of them closing their eyes and putting their finger on the map hanging on a wall to visit on Grace’s days off. As Harold healed they went farther away from Florence; Turin, Milan, or Venice to the north; a weekend trip spent touring Palermo and the surrounding area to the south.

Harold found work at an electronics store, going there on the days Grace was giving tours at the gallery. Florence may be an old city, but the people living there had computers, tablets, smartphones, etc. and there was a wave of repairs that needed done on those devices damaged from the Ice-9 virus, even in Italy. It wasn’t creating a super computer or saving the world, but the work made him feel useful.

Four months after he had moved into the cottage and believed they’d found happiness together again, Harold thought he was ready to be intimate with Grace. It happened one evening after they had drank a little too much wine while eating the meal Grace had prepared; they both were content, happy, and they had kissed over and over on the way to Grace’s bed.

Harold wasn’t ready. As soon as Grace tried to pull his shirt above his head he balked. No one but John had seen his scars and he yanked the material out of her hands. He immediately apologized, “I’m sorry, my scars...I can’t…”

Grace had shushed him, “It’s okay. Only when you’re ready.” She began to run her hands up and down his body, outside his clothes. Harold tried again but every touch of her tiny hands was a painful reminder that they weren’t John’s hands – strong, powerful, trained to kill when necessary yet gentle when he loved.

Grace’s kisses from soft feminine lips were a cruel gesture to him that they weren’t John’s rough, always slightly chapped ones on his while John’s stubble scratched his chin. Her hand drifting down to gently cup his genitals wasn’t the firm hand John had wrapped around his cock while stroking him to orgasm. Harold had struggled to get up quickly from the bed and fled to his own bedroom.

That was when the nightmares started up again. Many nights in that final month he woke up screaming John’s name. Grace would climb into his bed and wrap her arms around him, comforting him.

“You loved him?” she asked one night as he cried in her arms. His answer was a muffled “Yes.” while she pulled his head against her chest.

One day Grace had stood there watching Harold stare out the window, knowing his mind and heart were in the past and had walked over to touch him on the shoulder.

“This is not working Harold,” she had sadly told him. “I think it’s best we stop pretending. Your heart belongs to someone else now.” She had wrapped her arms around him. “You need to be honest with me and yourself. If John were still alive, you would never have come back to me.”

Harold couldn’t deny it. Two days later, with his belongings sent ahead by a carrier, Grace and he had boarded the train for Rome.

~ * ~

John spent a week drinking himself into oblivion before sobering up enough to leave the dive he had been holed up in. He went to the address where Evan Ardent resided. It was much the same as the place where John first lived after coming to work for Harold, before Harold had given him the loft. The one room walk-up was spartan, apartment bare of anything personal, and contained the minimum of essentials. A place that was ready to be abandoned at a moment’s notice and with no clues left behind as to what became of its former tenant.

John had plenty of downtime between jobs that were hard to find and even harder to keep for a former vet with no social skills. While John had learned them again while working with Finch, Evan Ardent had none whatsoever and try as much as John might to remain ‘John’, he was Evan now.

Still John had to find out if his desperate leap into a dying man’s body had saved Finch’s life. So while unemployed John staked out Harold’s old bolt holes and the safe-houses John knew about. If Harold were alive and still in the city attempting to reclaim his wealth, John found nothing to confirm it. Harold Finch, if he was alive, was no longer in New York City.

So for John a vicious cycle was started between sobriety and trying to kill himself again with cheap rotgut. On one hand he needed to stay sober on the off chance Harold was alive somewhere in New York City and somehow, some way John could tell Harold he was still alive.

On the other hand if Harold was gone, John didn’t want to live anymore, believing somehow they could be reunited in death.

~*~

A transit repair crew cleared the rubble from one of the many blocked tunnels they had found since the upheaval in the city after the Ice-9 virus. No one could explain why damaged tunnels and an internet virus went hand in hand but it was a fact. The reconstruction was months old and expected to take another year to complete.

One of the workers elbowed another after the debris blocking their way was removed and they looked around in surprise at the abandoned station they entered. “Look over there.”

They walked across the floor of the old station to a dust covered desk that held two computer monitors flashing lines of code while a third was dark with only a blinking cursor. “This is even weirder than that old subway car filled with burned and melted unrecognizable electronics in it we found a few months back.

One of them reached out to touch the mouse next to an even dustier keyboard.

The cursor moved as the words, ‘verifying subject identity, awaiting confirmation and instructions’ typed themselves upon the screen.

Then the words ‘identity verified, subject is not admin, close down terminal and begin search’ flashed inside a box with the word _Warning_ repeating itself as the box’s outline several seconds before everything except for a few lights in the ceiling went dark.

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the beginning


	4. Back to the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was lost is found again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a difficult road they travel to get there.  
> The more things change the more they remain the same

 

Harold spent the week after Grace rode away in the taxi feeling alone, miserable, and lost. Even after the most tragic events in his life had occurred he had had direction, something to motivate himself to go on – a purpose. After John had died so that he might live, there was honoring that precious gift by seeking out love and happiness here in Italy. With any chance of that happening now a distinct impossibility, Harold was left rudderless.

The next seven days and nights, Harold was too intoxicated by the _Grappa_ he drank like water or drugged beyond feeling anything by overdosing on his pain medications to care that he was heading down a road towards suicide. The morning – or was it in the afternoon of the eighth day? – Harold stumbled into the bathroom, dropped to his knees and retched. Too spent to get back up when the heaving stopped, Harold toppled over onto his right side and lay unmoving with his face pressed against the cool tile floor. His stomach had emptied itself of the toxins so that they were no longer entering his bloodstream and being carried to his brain which allowed Harold to think, even if not clearly, about what he was doing.

How many times in that first week after hiring John had he spent helping the suicidal man into the restroom of the hotel room – the very same room where Reese had angrily pinned Harold to the wall – to vomit and clean up afterward while Reese detoxed enough to the former OP’s satisfaction before working their first number together? What would John think of the person he viewed as his savior, the one who pulled Reese from the gutter thereby saving the life of a broken man, now following that same path? Harold curled into himself, ashamed.

Harold wasn’t sure how long he had spent there on the floor when he awoke to sunlight on his face the following morning. Although extremely sore when he used the sink’s vanity to pull himself to his feet, he opened every bottle of pain pills that was in the medicine cabinet, with the exception of some over the counter pain relief, dumped the pills into the toilet bowl and flushed it.

Next he poured the liquid contents of every bottle he found throughout the house except bottled water or juice down the drain of the kitchen sink. That having been done, Harold forced himself to eat some dry toast; his stomach was still too queasy to digest anything else.

Determined to set a goal for himself besides drinking to death, Harold used the chalet’s landline to order all the computer equipment necessary to build a system for the purpose he had in mind. The laptops he had brought from the loft in NYC weren’t quite powerful enough to do the major hacking he planned.

When Harold left the States six months ago, he had covered his tracks well in case Samaritan had somehow survived. Greer was dead, but that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t ready to take his place, having dozens of coders rebuilding the AI’s programming. Harold didn’t know what he could do this time to stand in the way of Samaritan’s path all alone; there was no way Harold was going to risk anyone’s life but his own.

Harold was immensely relieved yet angrier and more disappointed in parts of his own government than after the ferry bombing when after weeks of hacking into every byte of the NSA database he found out Samaritan was indeed destroyed; that all the surviving agents working for it and/or the NSA had either been reassigned or let go without an explanation why.

Also in order to cover their asses the agency had allowed the public to think China was responsible for the accidental launch and missile strike in NYC, but with the government council that knew better, the NSA led her to believe that Northern Lights and not the AI they had replaced it with was responsible. His creation, his child, a living being not a machine, had given its life to save even these fools from their mistakes to only be made a scapegoat for the results of their stupidity.

With both The Machine and Samaritan gone, the NSA would have to go back to the way it was before he and Nathan built a system to sort out the endless amounts of surveillance data the agency acquired. There was no way in hell Harold would build them another machine.

Harold felt guilty that another 911 would happen someday, there would eventually be a great loss of life due to another terrorist attack. The temptation for unscrupulous men to harness the power of another AI built to prevent such a tragedy was already a history doomed to repeat itself. No matter the cost Harold would not make the same mistake twice. If someday someone else created another Samaritan Harold would deal with its necessary destruction if he could, but his hands, his mind, his decisions would not be the instruments of another AI’s deliverance onto the world.

The creation of The Machine had started Harold down a tragic path that had taken the lives of people he cared for deeply; had put Grace in danger and although she was happy here in Italy, her life had been changed forever; The Machine and the Irrelevant Numbers had brought John Reese and he together but in the end his machine had cost Harold his partner, his friend, the real love of his life. Yet there wasn’t a moment he regretted creating The Machine because of their mission of saving the Irrelevants. The Mission was pure; it was good; it was the light in a world filled with darkness.

Grace was right, if John hadn’t died, Harold would be with him now. How Harold had handled their last day together was the one thing he wished he could change. Maybe, just maybe, if he had proceeded differently, the two beings that cared about him the most would still be here. Harold couldn’t change anything in the past, but he could do something to better the future.

~*~

The billions Harold had made in his life and all that went with having that wealth really wasn’t important; the small salary he was earning working at the store here in Rome belonging to the same electronics chain as the one in Florence had kept him clothed and fed the past month.

Harold’s only reason for reclaiming his wealth from every identity he had created through the years was to start a foundation in John Tallis’ name that offered grants, loans, or endowments to any organization involved in the prevention of crime as well as scholarships to individuals interested in law enforcement as a career.

Harold was at his bank of computers moving money from Harold Wren’s Universal Heritage Insurance hidden bank account into the JTR Foundation account. He had paused briefly to sit up straight to take some of the strain of being hunched over a keyboard off his back and take a sip of his tea when all of sudden his monitor screens began flashing lines of code – lines of code, some of which he had written over a decade ago, but remembered like he had formed them yesterday.

The words of the programming entering the screen of his center monitor scrolled up and out of view until there was only a flashing cursor in a screen of dark blue, the words _Admin Found, Identity Confirmed_ written on the same line.

The cup he held in his hand fell and shattered on the hardwood floor when the screen changed again,

** Hello Father **

~*~

It was late morning when Harold Scricciolo, resident alien living in New York City and recently returned from an extended stay in his homeland of Italy due to the death of his elderly father, was allowed to pass through customs easily as the harried agent at the counter gave his identification and legal documents a cursory glance before dismissing Harold with a quick, bored, unemotional, “Welcome to America.”

Harold by-passed baggage pickup as he had boarded the plane from Rome with only the same carry-on in which he had packed his mementos of John, one change of clothes, and his laptops before taking a flight to that Italian city nine months ago.

Matter-of-fact he returned to New York dressed in the same suit as the day he had departed the city. The only difference in his return was that Harold had a coat draped over one forearm and a laptop bag hung crosswise across his body, strap on his left shoulder-bag on his right side – and another name, another alias on his credentials.

Northern Lights was no longer the secret the government wanted kept going so far as assassinating its creators to keep it, the reason for Harold to hide behind assumed false identities during the latter part of his life. Harold’s return to the country with his latest identity was to elude an FBI agent’s obsession with re-capturing Harold Whistler; to bring Harold to justice for the sedition charges he’d been outrunning for almost half a century.

Harold easily found a taxi to hire. The cabbie quickly jumped out of the driver’s seat to open the trunk for his fare; Harold kept hold of his duster but put his two bags into it. Once seated in the rear of the car and the driver back behind the wheel, Harold gave him the address of the recently opened night-club called _The Library_.

The old building looked the same as the day his team had had to abandon it even with all the scaffolding and plastic tarping surrounding it gone. None of the building’s outer structure had been changed except what was probably a gaudy neon sign when lit that was suspended above the double doors now.

Harold paid the cabbie, retrieved his belongings, and as the taxi drove away he walked up to the door before entering a set of numbers into the keypad lock.

After entering the building again, Harold felt everything was wrong somehow as he stood inside the dimly lit interior at the base of the staircase winding upwards to his right, without the tall, dark haired, suit-clad, and ever vigilant man – his partner, best friend and lover – at his side. It was if Harold were returning to the family home after it had been completely remodeled; the two beings, one human - one canine, that he loved and shared it with long gone.

Urged on by the voice now in his ear, Harold paid scant attention to the main level of the building on his way to the basement entrance. Earnest had chosen to speak to Harold after its resurrection with the voice of an actor who like Harold was from Iowa. His character on LOST (Ben Linus) might have been thought to be evil, but in the end he helped mankind as the Number Two. Earnest found this voice pleasing and oddly reassuring. Harold noted the similarities to his own voice as he got _lost_ in his journey through the new version of The Library

Walking quick or no it was hard not to miss the changes. The books that once were scattered on every surface of the scuffed and dirty hardwood floor in between checkout counter, reference desk, wracks of yellowed newspapers or outdated periodicals, and of course bookshelf after bookshelf were gone. In everything's stead, books and furnishings alike, was a polished dance floor surrounded by tables and booths. In one corner was a well-stocked bar with polished glassware and numerous bottles of expensive rare liquors arranged on the glass shelves behind it. An area for a DJ or a live band was in the corner opposite. The only bookshelves remaining were covered with a gold mesh, the books locked inside them more than likely replicas of the classics, cardboard covers that looked like the real deal while the pages inside were blank of any printed word.

There was another number activated key pad on the door leading to the basement. Harold entered the correct numerical sequence and opened the door when the lock buzzed to let him in. The majority of the wine bottles in wooden racks, the boxes containing various alcohols, and other items stored in the cellar were not his concern. There was a well-hidden button one could only see if they removed the right bottle of red wine from its place. Harold pulled out the bottle recognizing it immediately, smiled forlornly knowing that it was a brand and vintage he had often shared with John during their candlelit dinners at the loft before Samaritan shattered that world, pushed the button, and slid the bottle back in its slot.

A panel camouflaged as part of the wine rack snicked open to reveal a third numerical pad plus retinal scanner mounted inside a crevice of the false wall. When the scanner chimed its verification, the panel snapped shut again before the entire wine rack made a faint crunching noise as it moved sideways enough for Harold to barely slip through. It immediately closed behind him once Harold was inside the hidden section of basement.

A secret underground room had been built beneath the newly constructed parking garage – its spaces reserved for club patrons only – not below _The Library_ itself; anyone checking the architectural design drawings and blueprints at the city planner's office would only see a parking structure built over new water lines as well as underground electrical cables leading into the old public library turned into an entertainment venue as well as the pipes connecting the building to the city's sewer system.

The room was minuscule compared to the entire floor of the IFT building that first held The Machine’s original servers and the government warehouse that they were shipped to after he and Nathan had sold the AI. The sheer number of large servers, the space, and huge amount of power needed to process endless amounts of data over a decade ago had become totally obsolete due in part to Caleb Phipps compression algorithm and the memory chips created using its application.

Some of that memory in a briefcase had kept The Machine from being destroyed by Samaritan once. Samaritan’s underlings had developed new technology created in part from the research it stole from Phipps's company pertaining to those chips that had allowed the rival AI to reduce the size and number of servers it needed to _protect/rule_ the world to fit inside a Federal Reserve vault.

The Machine had destroyed Samaritan and its core programming but not all of the data it contained. There were schematics and instructions that even the simplest of Samaritan’s many assets could follow as to what that AI needed to rebuild its servers once it returned to earth.

So, after months of planning and overseeing the reconstruction of The Library from the computer room in his Rome chalet with The Machine as his accomplice making this all happen, Harold was standing in the new server room; the place where his child now lived. It’s only part of the new sanctuary The Machine and he had had built in secret; the work done by former numbers they trusted enough to recruit, those whose lives had been saved and were grateful enough to help or others vetted because money could pay for their silence - no questions asked.

Harold stayed only twenty minutes there checking for himself that the system was working properly. Twelve servers not much bigger than an average sized double-door refrigerator were lined up on opposite walls six to a row with a data entry terminal situated mid center of the rows and the room itself. The Machine was busy processing endless amounts of data and sending out numbers – social security numbers or the equivalent, relevant or irrelevant– to the additional assets the AI had recruited during the time it searched for Admin.

The Machine, Harold found out had been hiring assets from the moment his AI created its Ernest Thornhill identity, but since it had tasked itself as the new _**Watcher**_ the AI needed thousands more to help save all the numbers it wanted to protect.

Satisfied by what Harold saw and urged on by the voice in his ear to check out Admin’s base of operations, he retraced his steps back upstairs, through the club, and to the winding staircase near the entrance. At the top the metal gates he had closed and locked when they had fled were now replaced by what appeared to be wooden doors made of solid oak, but in reality were lightweight reinforced steel covered by an actual wood veneer.

An engraved sign with the word _Private Office_ was affixed on one door. A sign riveted to the other door read _Please use courtesy phone at hostess station if you need to speak to the manager._

Harold had to use the second of a set of three keys, the first was in possession of the club’s manager and the third Harold gave to his newly hired employee, to insert into the keypad’s lock and turn it, before it would even recognize any numbers being entered – correct or not.

Of course the door buzzed letting him in after Harold entered the correct sequence. Harold tried not to be upset when he saw an actual office where their base of operations had once been. The old table that held his computers, the office chair he’d sat in for countless hours despite John pleading with him numerous times to get one more ergonomic for his neck and back, the card files and his Number board with its lines of multicolored yarn hanging above those old wooden cabinets, the cracked and taped glass board where he had hung the Number’s pictures, and what was most disconcerting of all – Bear’s bed that was on the floor beside that old rickety office chair, were all gone.

A polished mahogany desk sat in the middle of the _office_ ; a couch, chairs, and fake potted plants lined the walls. A small safe sat below a double paned glass window that had replaced the yellow lined stained glass window Harold had looked out while thinking many times in four years he’d stayed hidden in the old building.

Harold let out a resigned sigh that his and John’s lair existed only in his memories now and then proceeded to yet another lock disguised as a wall phone. He tapped #489 before pressing *564673373, the different tones released the lock and opened another hidden door; one that opened up to the rear of the second floor and the various bookshelves. Most of his prized editions and the books labeled with Harold's version of the Dewey Decimal System that he and the Machine first used as a secret code still remained on them.

Harold climbed the narrow staircase at the other end of the bookcases to the third floor.

There on the far wall of what was once a storage area sat a huge computer desk; its surface held three monitors, a keyboard and a mouse. The dusty, scratched, and dull wooden floor was buffed and polished like new, a long narrow rug runner colored a deep burgundy led to the desk. A new glass board sat away from one wall and a new cork board, strands of yarn in many different colors that were pinned to it hung on another. A smaller room past the desk on the right contained a small kitchenette complete with mini-fridge, microwave, a double burner table top stove, a ceramic tea pot, an electric coffee pot, and a box of Sencha green on the counter.

The voice in his ear asked, “Does everything meet your approval, Father?”

“Yes. Yes it does Earnest.”

“Excellent,” The Machine replied. “Are you ready then? You have a new number!”

After the initial shock of finding out his child lived and then forgiving the AI’s role in John’s death – “Forgive me Father, Asset John Reese was my number and I was unable to save him. Help me to not fail again,” Ernest had pleaded – Harold spent weeks going through the Machine’s new programming constantly urged by his creation to change anything of which he disapproved. When done, Harold hadn’t as much as even altered one word in a line of the hundreds of thousands rewritten or added by The Machine itself. His child wasn’t a thing to fear, but a caring, living entity; a machine yes, but one that of its own volition made its primary directive caring for and protecting the innocent regardless of the mistakes humans made.

Harold was rejoining the mission, pleased with the direction he was taking. Maybe he would feel happy again someday, but for now he had a purpose and a reason to live on.

The man who answered the phone sounded sleep groggy when he answered.

“Mr. Carlson, we have new number.”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” the man yawned the words and disconnected the call.

Harold tapped the home screen icon on his cell phone, sat it down on the desk to pull up what info he could on SSN 555-42-1342, sent Martha Billings picture to the printer, taped it on the board when ready, and waited for his employee to make his way to the office on the floor below. Carlson had yet to earn Harold's trust, hadn't been given the code to the hidden door, and only if Harold were present in the new operations room to buzz them in could anyone get any further than the club's office.

While he waited, Harold took out a 5x7, black and white surveillance photo he knew would be hidden in a locked side drawer of the desk; it was one of him and John sitting on a bench, Bear lying at their feet, in Central Park captured by The Machine not long after the AI had set itself free. Harold lovingly traced John's image with a fingertip.

_I am continuing our mission and dedicating it to you, John. Without you, it would have failed before it really had a chance to begin. The life you wanted for me didn’t happen the way you planned. Yet, I am content continuing what we started. I have a purpose again._

~*~

Evan Ardent straightened his midnight blue tie, popped the collar of the gray uniform shirt he wore, clipped the tie to the shirt and smoothed it down; the end of the tie brushed his belt buckle even as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

Taking in the rest of his appearance Evan was relieved that a shower, a clean shaven jaw, brown hair slightly jelled and meticulously combed, and the three pots of coffee he’d downed earlier that morning had erased every trace that he had tied one on the night before.

It was payday Thursday and Ardent had decided stopping by the neighborhood liquor store and buying a case of beer was better than paying a check cashing business their fifteen percent for providing that service. It wasn’t beer he couldn’t handle; it was the bottles of eighty proof Evan tried to drown himself in that were the problem.

John’s first day out of the hospital as Evan and that bottle downed in the fleabag motel proved that. His new personae could barely struggle out of the well-worn bed linens he had somehow tangled himself up in to go take a leak, let alone take out three armed gang-bangers on a subway that had messed with John while he was trying to sleep one off.

Well now, waking up with a splitting headache, bloodshot eyes, and twenty-four _dead soldiers_ littered about the apartment blew that ‘beer was okay’ supposition right out of the water.

 _You almost blew it Reese._ John was finding it more difficult as the weeks and months went by to hold on to John Reese and not become Evan Ardent. After years of training as a CIA operative Reese could drink his weight in beer and not even feel a buzz; could consume twice that and take out any threat more accurately and deadly than if he were stone cold sober. Hard liquor was different; even if too impaired to walk without falling down, John's instincts still kicked in when he was threatened and he was a deadly weapon even bare handed.

Evan though, John found out the hard way, couldn’t handle alcohol of any kind or amount. The job working as mall security was certainly a step down – hell, it was free fall with no parachute – from being government secret agents and saving the world in John’s case. But, it was a job, and John needed to keep it if he was ever to save enough money to go in search of Harold in Italy regardless of how useless and pathetic the job made him feel.

John had to know if Harold were alive. Finch wasn’t anywhere in New York City; Grace was the only person in this world left alive whom Harold cared about who wasn’t still here in the city – Italy was the only place John believed Harold could be.

There were still the bad days when John thought Harold had fled the hospital and the medical care keeping him alive, to be with John once more with his own passing. Of course following those bad days were the nights John held back and let Evan drink; they both should be dead and John should be by Finch’s side again.

So as time passed, John gave a lot of thought to why Evan was so hard to fight; why he had to mentally grab on to what’s left of John Reese and hold on tightly. The two men were so much alike in life – both betrayed by the government, left someone behind because of what they thought was their honor-bound duty to that government, and lost that person forever because of it – it was really hard for John not to just let himself go and allow Ardent’s death to complete its cycle. Evan’s spirit had wanted to leave his life without a fight; after Jessica's death John thought he would have done the same.

It was only John’s love for Harold and his need to find out if the man lived that kept Reese fighting to remain himself. John had to find out if his hurried leap into a dead man’s body succeeded in saving Harold when John’s own death hadn’t. Most of all he needed to know if living - was Harold doing so being happy and loved? If Harold had found some kind of peace, John would find a way to still watch over him even if Harold never knew that he still lived.

The one outstanding difference though between them was that Ardent had old army buddies who Evan had kept in touch with and friends in fellow agents of the NSA who had quit the agency rather than become lethal mercenaries or assassins taking orders from some voice in their ear like Evan had; in the months that followed, most all them had searched Ardent out when they heard through the grapevine what the agency had done to Evan after him being shot.

Maybe if Evan had been totally friendless as John was before Finch came into his life, Reese could have been Reese and not have to be Ardent. But it seemed like every day John had to play the part. What John thought he was going through was like what happens to some law enforcement personnel going deep undercover – they live the lie so long they lose touch with who they really were. It had happened once when John Tallis became John Reese; of course, the CIA was responsible in that for the most part. John had foolishly let Stanton and Snow manipulate him. Because of Finch, John found that young man who just wanted to be the hero those two had nearly destroyed and why now John held on as best he could to Reese.

Thankfully it was one of Ardent's ex-Army comrades who recognized Evan’s/John’s troubles being civilian again. Emanuel Delgado convinced Evan to attend the support group Emanuel had started. He had created it especially for veterans with substance abuse problems, namely alcohol. The meetings operated under the umbrella of _Alcoholics Anonymous_. John wasn't all that crazy about the idea; support groups had never really worked for him, but Evan really needed to attend and so they did. Especially on those bad nights when John wanted to be with Harold; instead of climbing into a bottle he climbed in Ardent's junker instead and went to a meeting.

John/Evan had been sober for months when the company that the mall contracted with for security officers offered Evan a spot in its six week armed guard program. Of course the company recognized Ardent had arms training that would make theirs look like a class on using _Super_ _Shooters,_ but policy was policy. The substantial hike in pay grade was worth a few weeks of being taught how to play _Chopsticks_ when you’re already a concert pianist. John/Evan’s savings account – yes after the liquor store debacle, John had opened an account at the security company's associated credit union in Evan’s name – contained barely enough for the airline ticket to Rome and at best a week's stay in a hotel. Three times what Evan was making now meant three times sooner John could leave for Italy.

Evan’s accidental discovery of a young, lost boy who was being abused with John not even trying to control Evan’s temper upon seeing a bruised and scarred back resulted in Ardent being terminated **AND** docked his final week’s pay.

Company policy was that employees report to their supervisors at the mall immediately with any problems and then a company supervisor, detain the culprits if at all possible with as little physical contact as necessary, and wait for back-up. Not grab the boy’s father by his shirt front and slam him against a wall, turn him to face it and zip tie the man’s wrists; not place him under citizen’s arrest, especially when the man has enough money and high paid lawyers to sue everyone involved into bankruptcy.

It was totally John in control when the bottle was emptied this time. If Finch were here and that little kid was their number, dad would end up penniless, facing criminal charges and conviction, and the child placed in a good home.

 _ **Damn Samaritan!**_ Everything they had worked for was gone and assholes like that father were still out there. Now he may never find Finch or even see Harold again despite John’s resurrection. John drank away the disappointment; the alcohol burned the bitter taste of failure from his tongue.

John woke up sweating and anxious. He saw Harold alive in a dream that became more vivid as he wakened, instead of fading away. His appearance was so different from the Finch Reese last saw alive. Long hair curling at the shoulders and a thin beard framed a gaunt face; lenses in wire rim glasses magnified the bright blue eyes widened with fear.

John would recognize Harold no matter how he appeared and there was a dark unrecognizable silhouette of a man holding a gun on him.

It was still early evening - even after John managed to drag himself out of the alley where he'd passed out and back to his apartment, showered and changed into decent street clothes - when he rushed to the group’s nightly meeting. He had to stop drinking; he had to fight Evan's hold on this body. Harold needed him.

John had his head bowed waiting for the first attendee to speak. He didn’t watch a small man with a limp walk up to the front.

“Hello, my name is Harold and I’m an addict,” the familiar voice wavered with the admission and John’s head snapped up.

Eyes behind wire rimmed glasses looked around the room, settling for a moment on Delgado who was urging the man to keep talking. Then they continued their search about the room until they found Evan. Harold’s face relaxed as if he recognized Evan; which couldn’t be right. However, John knew every one of Finch’s mannerisms. What he was seeing was relief.

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold recruits a new member to  
>  _Finch's Home for Wayward Assassins_


	5. Someone Lost, Someone Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's search for the right man for the job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Machine breaks its agreement with Harold about non interference in the mission to lead him to Evan after the first hand picked candidates the two had found were failures.

 

 

_Three weeks prior to the AA meeting_

Mitchell Carlson met his boss, former boss apparently, at a busy laundromat not far from the home of their number, Martha Billings. If anyone noticed the heated discussion between the two men – one dressed in a ratty _Yankees_ jersey-tee and seen better days army surplus store camouflage pants, four days' worth of grubby stubble littering his face; the other wearing a bespoke suit, his longish hair and light beard neatly trimmed – no one spared a second glance looking at them too busy with their own tasks of laundry day.

“What are you so upset about Har…old?” Carlson asked in a tone that was both condescending towards his nerdy looking boss and completely baffled by the other man’s tightly controlled ire. “I saved the old biddy from her greedy bastard of a grandson. What more did you want?”

Harold grit his teeth at the patronizing way Carlson dragged out his first name, the man’s pointed way of not addressing Harold as Mr. Scricciolo. Harold had given the man the benefit of the doubt that the last name of Harold’s newest alias was hard to pronounce and would have accepted any attempt at its pronunciation no matter how butchered it was when his new employee addressed him by it. Only instead of giving Mr. Scricciolo any modicum of respect, Carlson had begun addressing his new boss by first name only, always sounding out Harold like it was something Carlson scrapped off the bottom of his shoe. If time wasn’t of the essence for poor Mrs. Billings Harold would have sent him packing then and not called on him to help when the woman’s number came up. Harold could cope with Carlson’s disrespect.

“While you handled the threat to Mrs. Billings by stopping the grandson quite effectively using the physical skills I hired you for, your social interactions with people leave much to be desired. We do not refer to the victim as an old biddy or perpetrator for that matter as a bastard and we most certainly do not tell the victim, ‘If you hadn’t willed your entire estate to be put in a trust for your damned cats, maybe your grandson wouldn’t have felt the need to kill you.’ And while I overlooked it because of my desperate need of your services, I willingly subjected myself to your disrespect. That is a mistake I am immediately rectifying. I am afraid your services are no longer of use to me. Good day, Mr. Carlson.”

Harold managed to get all the words out while keeping his anger under control. He handed Carlson a manila envelope containing credit cards, new identification, and the hefty cash amount agreed upon by the two at the time Harold first recruited the former government operative as severance pay for when the man’s services were no longer required.

When Harold turned to walk away, Carlson reached out grabbing Harold by the arm, spun him back around, and got in his face, “Listen you nerdy little gimp, you can’t just fire me!”

Carlson face drained of color as he dropped his hand and backed up a step a bit in fear. Harold eyes had narrowed; his lips pursed. With a voice cold as ice he spoke barely above a whisper, “Get your hands off me, Mr. Carlson. I may indeed **_fire_** you. If you do not wish to be thrown in a federal prison somewhere convicted of the crimes your agency tried to charge you with and failed due to lack of evidence, you will leave this city immediately. You will forget my base of operations and I even exist or I will make sure the government gets the video evidence it needs to convict you. Your innocence is of no consequence, believe me that I am able to do exactly that and I will if my operation is threatened by you in any way.”

After the altercation with Carlson, Harold had stopped by Mrs. Billing's brownstone to apologize once more for his employee’s lack of tact and reassured her again that she was safe as her grandson was in police custody – he wouldn’t be seeing the light of day for quite some time. Satisfied that he’d calmed the troubled waters when the grateful lady thanked him with a hearty hug and an offer of the first pick of her beloved Mitzi's next litter, Harold returned to _The Library_. By the time Harold was back in the new operations room watching surveillance footage sent to him by Earnest, his former employee had made the cab ride to JFK in record time, purchased a one-way ticket from _United Airlines_ flying directly to San Francisco, and had already boarded the plane.

 _Good riddance!_ Harold asked Earnest for his help in finding the location of the other candidates they had chosen while Harold was still in Italy to be to be his right hand in New York City.

 

_One week prior_

It had taken three days to locate Carlson’s predecessor, a former agent of the pre-Machine NSA and a questionable private detective by the name of Miles Singletary. It had also taken Harold three days to decide the newest probationary primary asset was in all likelihood a disaster waiting to happen and handed Miles his walking papers.

The man was extremely good at his new job – his investigative skills were outstanding despite his reputation as a _private-eye_ , he had taken on the hired hitman in hand to hand combat to save the number reminiscent of John’s proficiency, and like John was sympathetic to the woman’s plight – only Singletary’s downfall was that he was too emphatic with Miss Anderson.

The man hadn’t returned to the operations room the following morning for the mandatory debriefing without so much as a short text to alert Harold as to why. Earnest sent a new number to Harold’s computers not even five minutes after Harold booted them up while waiting for the new employee to show. When three hours had passed from the scheduled meeting time, Harold tracked the GPS signal on Miles phone back to the young woman’s apartment; Miles had spent the night _consoling_ the number shades of Rick Dillinger.

Deciding that he didn’t want to take a chance on a repeat of the Dillinger fiasco, different circumstances entirely or not, Harold had **urged** Singletary to leave New York City for a fresh start in Seattle.

The last possible replacement was no longer in the state of New York let alone the city. Contacting Sameen Shaw was out of the question; after she had enough time to get over her ordeal of being captured by Greer, Earnest wanted her to be the primary asset helping with the relevant numbers. Somewhere out there was a new _Control_ The Machine had picked to be in charge of handling threats to the country. Harold had no knowledge of any more than that. The person handling things on the other side believed that they were the only side, so for now at least Sameen Shaw couldn't know about Harold being alive.

Without backup of the kind he needed, Harold had handled that new number and the three following on his own by sending pertinent information to the NYPD. Their old friend Detective Fusco started eyeballing the surveillance cameras he passed after info that had landed on his desk anonymously helped him to prevent the murder of a loan shark who had pressed too hard for the money he was owed by the mentally unstable dock worker whom he had threatened.

Only with the latest number, Emanuel Delgado – an honorably discharged Army sergeant who had trained two generations of cadets in rifle marksmanship at the Bennington Military Academy in Arlington, Virginia and after retiring was now living alone with a German Shepherd named Max in an apartment in the Bronx – Harold could not find anyone who would want to harm Delgado or for that matter, anyone Delgado had it in for.

The man now worked as a caretaker for a church three blocks from his apartment to supplement his retirement benefits. His only activity outside of work besides taking Max to the dog park twice a day and visiting his sister on Sunday for family dinners was overseeing the weeknight meetings held in the church’s basement for the AA group he had started for veterans with substance abuse problems to attend.

On the surface there appeared to be nothing Harold could see that would make Delgado a victim or perpetrator, the guy for all intents and purposes was one of the good ones.

Harold didn’t want to work any number by himself personally without backup, but set up a cover to work under regardless and only as a last measure. He would give it a few more days of surveying the number’s activities and checking out anyone with even the thinnest thread of being connected to Delgado with a fine tooth comb.

There were numerous dog owners Manuel would gather to chat with at the dog park while Max romped and played with their pets but none of them panned out as threats. The twice daily get togethers were their only social interactions with one another; outside of the dog park they all went their separate ways.

Harold, with Earnest’s help, had control of the nearest camera to watch all the proceedings at the park. Before clicking off the feed having decided the park was a dead end, he watched Delgado playing with Max for a few more minutes.

The Shepherd was a former Army dog trained to search for explosives and retired due to injury. He was obedient and loving. His similarities to Bear made Harold’s heart clinch. Bear’s presence was sorely missed. However, Ms. Shaw – the Malinois' pack mate – could keep him until Harold had a stable environment for Bear. With John gone (and how was Harold to explain that to Bear?) Bear needed someone to assume the role as new Alpha with Harold as primary caregiver. Since the day John found the dog and brought him to the Library, Bear’s job was usually guarding Harold and assisting the Primary Asset.

Until Harold could find a suitably responsible agent he would not be taking over Bear’s care. A canine needs consistency in the home. Harold would not subject Bear to constant replacements who would leave after proving unsuitable in the field. It would be cruel to keep giving him new Alphas and taking them away. Bear needed stability and Harold would give it to him.

Harold sighed heavily at the daunting task. Impossible as it seemed to find another the likes of John Reese to fill the vacancy in both his and Bear’s lives in regards to the new Mission, he couldn’t shake the visceral notion there was someone out there that could partially fill that void. No one would ever fill the gaping hole left in Harold’s soul from John’s death, but finding this elusive substitute embodiment of all that Reese was in the quest of savings lives to work alongside Harold could bridge the chasm somewhat.

Harold pulled up the first list of names he had made of anyone who Delgado interacted with, family members to closest friends, the reverend at the church to the clerk at the local bodega – everyone, including Max’s veterinarian, the mailman, and the paperboy. After five hours digging up every little detail of these people’s lives, Harold eliminated every one of them as possible threats.

Harold then opened up the second list of names, the attendees of Delgado’s support group. It was a guesswork one at that because no one had to give Manuel any identification except a first name and there was no guarantee of that even being real. Harold ran facial recognition software on those whose images were captured by the traffic camera on the corner where the church was located. One by one all but two of the twenty or so who came to the meetings regularly and five others who attended more than once were identified correctly.

Harold hands froze over the keyboard; a shiver of apprehension ran down his spine when he recognized the face in the surveillance photo Earnest sent to his central monitor before he could make the first keystroke to begin his research on the last photo in the list of support group attendees.

“Is he the threat?" Harold asked his voice as shaky as the hands hovering over the keyboard.

Earnest reminded Harold of their agreement; the AI would only intervene if the number’s life or their victim’s if the number was the perpetrator, was in imminent danger. “I am making an exception to our agreement because I have frightened you and that was not my intention. Do not be alarmed Father. Evan Ardent is not the threat to Mr. Delgado. Why I sent you his photo along with the others, you must investigate on your own.”

The Machine’s revelation eased Harold’s fears somewhat. Regardless of Earnest’s reassurances when he began looking into who or what Evan Ardent was now, Harold still felt on edge. It was as if he were walking in a dark alley expecting something lurking in the shadows to jump out at him at any moment.

Regardless that the man was shot and sent to the same hospital as he on that fateful day nearly a year ago – if the rumor was to be believed that Ardent had pleaded for the one of the EMTs to go in search of ‘his friend’ which resulted in Harold being found and saved – this was still the face of one of the Samaritan agents sent to that building to eliminate Harold Finch.

Harold used that day as the starting point for his research into Ardent. What had happened after that elevator door closed as Harold made his way to the roof? Why hadn’t the two agents kept following and who had shot Ardent? And most of all, why was a critically injured Samaritan agent urging medical personnel to go in search of an injured target?

The police had looked into the shootings, but in the maelstrom after Samaritan’s destruction, the investigation had fallen by the wayside. Harold was able to hack into the department database to view a digital copy of the footage captured by the building’s security camera in the main lobby starting where he struggled to limp to the elevator door before entering the car and ending where the ambulance personnel carried both him and Ardent out on stretchers.

Harold had to watch the video clip twice it was so unbelievable. Ardent had been shot by the other Samaritan agent during an altercation between the two men; it was obvious Ardent had been trying to convince his partner to let their target go. It was even more incredible to see a man seconds after being resuscitated apparently pleading with the attending medic for them to find someone. There was no audio to the feed but Harold could see Ardent’s obvious distress as one EMT tried to calm him and Ardent’s eyes close in relief reassured when another medic headed for the bank of elevators.

What Harold witnessed on that tape was nothing even close to the first time he had seen CIA operative John Reese and watched him spare the life of the young man the OP was sent to eliminate. Harold felt his heart skip a beat at the memory; he had even fallen a little in love with John that day although Harold hadn’t recognized it for what it was at the time. Yet the sixth sense that had at the time told him John was someone unique was niggling at him now.

The more Harold looked into the life of Evan Ardent from fatherless teen joining the Army to ex-NSA operative, it was like finding John Reese all over again. That nagging feeling in the back of his mind morphed into the surety that Mr. Ardent was indeed the man he was looking for to assist him in this new mission. The man needed a real job, one where he could utilize his talents, and fulfill that desire to help people his agency had also taken advantage of.

Harold looked into the monitor directly in front of him, the one with Evan Ardent’s face filling the screen, knowing The Machine was silently watching its admin reach his own conclusions, “Ardent is the one isn’t he?” Harold really wasn’t asking for confirmation and Earnest’s silence was more of an acknowledgement than if the AI had spoken.

That is if Harold wasn’t too late. Like John, Evan had been abandoned if not also betrayed by the agency he had believed in; Ardent had been discarded like useless baggage by the NSA when Samaritan had been destroyed. Ardent had taken to drinking heavily before his friend from their early army days, Manuel Delgado, had urged Evan to attend the support group.

Evan had been doing relatively well handling his addiction with the help of Delgado’s support group and keeping a steady job until several days ago when he had been fired for man-handling a suspected child abuser. Harold had tracked the man as he left the mall where he worked security to a nearby liquor store. The man disappeared from there, hadn’t returned to the tiny efficiency he lived in, and Harold did the only thing he could think to do to find him. He assumed the cover he had created to get close to Delgado. Harold couldn’t shake the notion that both these men’s lives depended on it.

Harold found himself face to face with Manuel Delgado an hour later inside the small outbuilding at the rear of the church seated in a worn out waiting room chair. Delgado himself was sitting in a tattered leather office chair behind a scarred wooden desk.

Harold had introduced himself as Harold Corbin. The backstory he gave was that he had been crippled in the ferry bombing, had been dealing with PTSD – was affected still almost seven years later, had pulled himself out of the lethal spiral he was in using pills and alcohol to cope, and had been sober and drug-free with the exception of the mild non-addictive pain relievers he took for the last five years.

He offered his services as a sponsor, a sober companion for anyone in Delgado’s group who needed one; Harold was companion for two years to a man who had cleaned himself up enough in that time to be able to go back to his family in Albany. When Manuel asked why his support group, Harold had been quick to explain that he was new to the neighborhood and was afraid to travel long distances by any mode of transportation unless absolutely necessary; the church was near enough he could walk there without too much discomfort to his damaged leg.

Manuel had looked Harold up and down in contemplation before standing and offering his hand, “Everyone of my members suffer from PTSD in some form, your offer to be a sponsor for one of them is a godsend Mr. Corbin. If you are ready to start right away we are having a meeting in thirty minutes.

Forty-five minutes later Harold was at the podium introducing himself to the group of about twenty men and women. He looked first at Delgado who nodded to him to keep speaking; Harold almost breathed out loud his sigh of relief when his eyes made contact with those of Evan Ardent. He then smiled at the man he had been searching for. _Thank goodness he’s alright._

_~~ * ~~_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold talks to Evan about being his sponsor  
> And reveals who he really is before offering Evan a job.  
> John accepts immediately but remains silent about Evan being dead and that he was the one the medics revived (that revelation might get him a room at the sanatorium) until.....


	6. Everyone Needs a Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold finds a new partner to work with him  
> John Reese gets his second chance.  
> The broken connection begins to mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off sorry this chapter took months to finish and if you are reading this, thank you for returning  
> Also this one is a monster, plenty of mistakes were made, if I failed to correct them all....oops my bad.
> 
> I know sometimes reading John/Evan gets confusing, just remember John is Evan to Harold  
> John thinks as John, but his actions are what he believes Evan would do or say.
> 
> John is all over the place with his feelings wanting to be near Harold and also thinking, wrongly, Harold never cared about him...back to that I am pond scum who deserves nothing good attitude
> 
> Harold is even more private with his feelings even though he expresses some of them out of necessity.  
> Only nothing about how much he loved John to anyone except Grace when she asked the night they broke up. Why poor John thinks what he does
> 
> A/N I wished I could have posted this 9.11.16 Fifteen years ago many heroes died. There is a memorial constructed where the Twin Towers once stood. May we all look upon it in some way and honor those heroes the way Harold does his hero John Reese.

_ _

 

_John Reese/Evan Ardent_

John wanted to shout, “Harold!” — To jump up from the rusty jointed metal folding chair, move as fast as possible to the podium, and clench Harold in a bear hug while confiding low enough that only Harold could hear, “It’s me Finch. I’m alive.”

What John did instead was listen to Harold C. tell his story, smiling encouragingly when the speaker would lock his gaze on Evan’s face and thought...

_Why is Finch here in disguise? The beard and long hair have to be a cover that Harold needed long before he showed up here tonight for this meeting. Yet he uses it in his pretense to be here, now, tonight. The man I died for, became someone else to save, is here; posing as a recovering addict — Finch is alive, well, and obviously working the numbers again._

John took a quick glance around the room, then back at Harold...Corbin, former addict and newest attendee of this help group. Someone in this room was in danger and Harold was playing his role to perfection; so determined to carry out the mission, alone if necessary. John couldn’t understand why he felt as if time had been reset and the past six years were wiped away as if they never happened or their past together never mattered to Harold.

_Was it all for nothing? Did my sacrifice mean nothing? Most of all why was Harold looking at Evan as if he was someone Harold needed to help him? Was Ardent the next in line to be the latest helper monkey? God how I hated being called that, but is that all I was?_

A few more of the regulars stood up to discuss their situations since they all had met last before Manuel called a close to the night’s session. John had stood intending to seek out Finch, but before he even took three steps towards where Harold had taken a chair next to Delgado’s now vacated one, Manual came up beside John and grasped his arm, “There’s someone you should meet Evan. I asked him to wait for us in the office. If you wouldn’t mind hanging back until everyone leaves, I’ll take you to him.”

The members of the group dispersed quickly; within a few minutes goodbyes had been said and the meeting room emptied. Of course Harold was gone too, his chair sat empty. Delgado then escorted Evan outside the exit door and the few steps to the office before following the other man inside.

Harold was sitting in a ragged looking upholstered waiting room chair that faced an equally _rescued from a dumpster_ desk and stood to face the two men as they entered the door.

John was once again overwhelmed with the need to pull Harold into his arms and softly cry into his ear that he, John Reese, was alive.

Evan shook the hand extended to him instead when Manuel introduced Evan Ardent to Harold Corbin. It only lasted the briefest of time while their hands were clasped but enough time for John to drink in his fill of the man he had worried about for months that he wouldn’t see again until he/Evan really died.

John could see Harold had changed just by looking into his eyes. There was a hardened determination there now; gone was the wide-eyed innocence Finch had always viewed the world with while watching firsthand how much it wasn’t. Yet here he was. John knew someone — _was it Evan Ardent?_ — was a number and Harold Corbin was the identity created for Finch to intercede before whatever unknown fate could befell that Irrelevant. _Were the numbers even irrelevant or relevant anymore or just numbers?_

Though most of all, John could see that the cover of Harold Corbin being a former addict was not a fabricated story. Harold still had the look of a recovering alcoholic, but the timeline of his bout with alcoholism was not something that happened years ago; maybe months, even weeks, but not years. John was no expert but he had viewed that same appearance in his own countenance as he dried out those first few months after Finch had hired him. The beard and glasses hid it well; still John could see the signs.

Had the temporary loss of his machine due to the damage it sustained from the virus Harold released to destroy Samaritan and the suspension of the mission while it was down been that devastating to Finch after he had survived? Was it a depression so heavy that the man John would have and had given his life for, in a way, sought relief in the bottle as John had once done? And was The Machine’s obvious survival and the mission’s reboot the reason why Finch was now clean and sober?

Harold Corbin and Evan Ardent sat in the chairs proffered them as Manuel sat behind the desk. Delgado wasn’t one to sugar coat anything so he came right out and told Evan of Mr. Corbin’s offer. “Evan, Mr. Corbin is an approved sober companion, has offered his services as such and even will open up his home to aid someone that needs and truly wants his help. As my friend, it may appear I am playing favorites, but of all the attendees in our group you are the one who best meets the criteria. Other words my friend, you **need** his help.”

The three men discussed what companionship entailed for a half hour with Evan agreeing to try this method as nothing else worked with Evan having relapsed just tonight once again. Of course John had jumped at the chance, a chance to be near Harold no matter the reason why Harold Corbin had managed to get Manuel to choose Evan Ardent.

John accepted the invitation from Harold that Evan could accompany him the few blocks to Corbin’s apartment to further discuss Ardent’s taking up residence in the spare bedroom. John wasn’t ready to part from Harold yet. Despite the crushing disappointment he was feeling that Harold was back to saving the numbers without seemingly skipping a beat, even while seeing the physical evidence that Finch had been so despondent he had become a user, John had to be in Harold’s presence regardless. He may be Evan Ardent now to everyone, including Harold, but John Reese still needed Harold Finch-Corbin-whoever like a drowning man needs air.

As they walked the short distance to the sparkling new apartment building, a finished project of the city’s revitalization program that was slowly creeping change into the derelict neighborhood where the church was located, John walked near Harold’s side. Close enough that every so often his and Harold’s hands, arms, or elbows would brush against each other.

John desperately and secretly relished the brief, innocent casual touches between them during those all too short ten minutes of walking. Running his hand across Harold’s shoulder, having his own arm gripped lightly by Harold's hand when he needed John’s attention, and all the hundreds of other ways their bodies had made cursory contact through their time together John realized he had taken for granted and gave up having them anymore making his sacrifice. With this second chance, however brief that it would be allowing him to touch Harold again, it felt like that sense had been denied him for years now not months.

All the while as they walked side by side John feared that with his being Evan now, those accidental touches would be all that happened between them in the brief amount of time Harold would be in Ardent’s world and prayed somehow there would be a way for that time to not end.

Harold Corbin’s apartment was on the top floor and John was surprised that the only security features in the elevator to prevent unauthorized access were floor selection indicators contained in a lock-box or a phone for guests to call an apartment number and request that the resident activate the car remotely. Not the level of security found in a Harold Finch bolt-hole.

Corbin’s apartment was one of only two occupying the top floor and its entrance was at the end of the hall from the elevator. Harold used a standard key to slide back the sturdy looking deadbolt and then inserted the same key into the doorknob to unlock it and open the fancy but certainly not unique wooden door. He bade Evan enter first with the wave of a hand and followed.

 _Ah there it is!_ John had walked a few steps inside and turned to watch Evan’s host. Harold’s back was to Evan while he reactivated a state of the art alarm system complete with thumb fingerprint scanner and key locked alarm code entry pad. The alarm was wired to alert _Ace Security_ of a home invasion; the company’s quick response time and the professional way their elite personnel handled the emergency call had deterred many a criminal from successfully entering their customer’s homes for over twenty years now.

John looked away as Harold reset the alarm to check out the room they were in and what he could see of the kitchen and hallway. Even though the apartment was on the fourteenth floor the windows John could see were blinded with security shutters that could only be opened, raised, or lowered by using the keypads installed on the wall next to each window. John assumed that every window he couldn’t see was similarly shuttered. The security for entering the building and possibly up to the apartment floor was truly lax for a paranoid Harold Finch, but the apartment itself was as secure as Fort Knox. No one was getting in and if they did they wouldn’t have time to do what they came to do or try to leave without being captured then escorted out by some kind of armed forces.

John again wondered what or who Finch was hiding from now. Why the beard, the long hair, and the return to the wire framed glasses Harold wore those first few weeks after he’d found John? It wasn’t for the cover for this number. The complete change of Finch’s profile wasn’t something that occurred in a week’s time; it took months.

Samaritan was gone, but John was sure there were those who were once under its control that might be seeking to harm Finch for destroying their god. While certain individuals in the government might want to find a way to control Finch, they wouldn’t assassinate possibly the only person on the planet able to create another AI for their use; no matter which scenario, Harold would keep himself hidden.

Was the dark silhouette holding the gun John saw in his dream the threat Harold was hiding from? Reese had had those premonitions come in dreams while he was still alive that seldom were wrong, so being Evan now made no difference; John took that alcohol induced nightmare seriously. Or is the phantom a danger to the number and Harold gets in his or her path? Either way John had to find a way to keep Evan Ardent close. Harold Finch would forever need John Reese's protection. How could John have thought that dying on the rooftop to save Harold’s life would free Finch from danger for the rest of the man’s days?

Alarm reset, Harold walked past Evan and offered him a seat on the sofa and then made his way to the kitchen asking on the way, “Would you like a beverage Mr. Ardent? I have bottled water, fruit juice, some citrus flavored soda or I can make coffee if you prefer? I am going to fix tea for myself.”

Evan was as much a coffee - black and strong - drinker as John ever was so that’s what he asked for. John could see into the kitchen better from his position seated on the couch; he watched Harold momentarily as the other man started a pot of coffee for his guest and set a kettle on the stove to heat water for making tea for himself.

When Harold began pulling what looked to be ingredients to make sandwiches from the refrigerator, John decided to check out the main living area of the apartment while Harold was preoccupied. The spacious room was furnished luxuriously with pricey decor that matched the upscale lifestyle a successful semi-retired coder and programmer like Harold Corbin could indulge in. Only the entire setting could pass for a photograph in any home decoration magazine. Tasteful, lovely, eye-catching, and nothing anywhere that revealed the tiniest detail about who lived there.

John smiled inwardly even while overwhelmed with the uncertainty and worry he was feeling concerning the danger to Harold; some things never changed. Corbin's apartment may look completely different but this was their safe-house all over again. _Damn I miss that place!_

Evan stood quickly and rushed over to take the inlaid silver tray of sandwiches from Corbin. Harold said thank you and looked pleased with Evan’s courtesy. John was relieved, he didn’t want Harold put off because he believed Ardent thought him weak because of his disability.

With his hands free Harold returned to the kitchen briefly for the two large steaming mugs containing their drinks. The pottery cups may not have been small delicate china, but were just as exquisite with beautiful birds – of course – hand painted on the glazed surface.

They sat in the living room after Evan placed the tray on the coffee table. They drank their respective drinks and nibbled on the delicious finger sandwiches – the crusts cut off, which made John smile. This reminded him of those finer things like tea and cookies served on a silver service set or even suit pant cuffs shivering above the shoe, that Harold had introduced John and later even Shaw to before Samaritan had forced them to live spartan existences in exile from their beloved library.

Corbin looked over at Evan every so often, his face open and friendly, but John could still read that face so well; the man was nervous. Finally Harold cleared his throat. “I have to confess that I brought you here under false pretenses.”

Why John couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease, flirt, and fluster Harold a bit with this admission he didn’t know, but Evan smirked and raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Is my virtue in danger?”

He was immediately kicking himself mentally. Harold looked startled, “Certainly not. I just meant that I know you are not going to benefit from therapy, pills, or a sober companion. A man such as yourself needs a purpose.”

John was struck by a jolt of deja vu. Was it only five years ago that John Reese heard those words? Evan needed to be as unconvinced as Reese had been back then. But everything within him that was left of John Reese wanted to fall to the floor and beg for another chance to work the numbers, to be close to Harold once more.

However, instead Evan stood up and went to the window. Looking out at the city skyline, John couldn’t believe the strange way destiny and second chances could manifest themselves. In a city as big as New York what were the odds that John could see clearly the metal framework of the building being constructed on the grounds where John Reese had ‘died’ saving the number that mattered the most to him in life? From this place where he was finally reunited with Harold Finch, John could almost reach out and touch the steel skeleton extending upward from the spot where everything had nearly ended. He was positive what Harold was about to offer him, or rather Evan Ardent, and he would be getting a second chance to work the numbers once more, even if the it would never again be as the man, John Reese – The Man in the Suit.

Only John decided he needed to keep those cards close to his chest, to keep silent, hence Evan scoffed, “What kind of man do you think I am?”

Harold stayed where he was sitting. “A **man** who served his country.”

Evan snorted derisively, “Any chump can be taught to shoot a target and peel potatoes.”

Harold Corbin got up from his seat on the sofa and slowly limped over to stand next to Ardent. Looking out the same window as Evan, Harold Corbin drew in a deep breath, “I’ll tell you what kind of man you are. You were not some **chump** , Mr. Ardent. You were an honorable soldier, finely honed and loyal to your country. So uniquely skilled you were recruited by an agency of the US government. As wonderful as this country is, unfortunately its agencies are often...not. While doing what they think is best for this country and its people their actions are often reprehensible and corrupt. You were sucked in, used by the NSA, and ordered to do things you began to question as morally wrong.”

Corbin touched Ardent’s arm lightly to get the man to look at him and continued, “Your last order from the NSA was to kill a terrorist, a man responsible for releasing a devastating computer virus. You refused to kill that man you were sent after resulting in your being mortally wounded by your partner.”

Corbin paused as if to brace himself for Ardent’s reaction to what he was about to reveal.  “I was the man you were ordered to kill. I released the Ice-9 virus. I have used many names in my adulthood, none of them the one I was born with. The man you were sent to kill was known as Harold Finch.”

John was not surprised that Harold knew about Ardent’s life history, and John in fact knew Harold had released the virus. Only Evan did not know of Harold's guilt in the matter or even the name of the man he was ordered to kill. So,

Evan Ardent stepped back, shock and confusion warring emotions on his face. “I was almost killed because I thought you were innocent.”

~*~

_Harold Finch/Corbin_

Harold swallowed nervously then began speaking to the group, telling the attentive listeners about the tragedy that had befallen him and his life afterwards. The details were so close to his actual life that Finch couldn't help but became emotional even though he followed the cover story he had set up for Harold Corbin. Harold began with how athletic he had been for a man his age before he had been injured in the ferry explosion and became permanently disabled. Harold admitted, “It was hard accepting never being able to do any of the things I had once loved to do, especially running.”

Harold Corbin told everyone listening he dealt with that loss or rather, hadn’t dealt with it, by getting addicted to the pain pills he’d been prescribed. “Soon the number of pills in the prescription was running out before the refill dates; I began scamming different emergency room doctors who didn't know me by giving them various excuses why I couldn’t see my regular physician. The doctors I saw usually would write out a script for just enough pills to help me with the pain in the interim.”

 Harold paused to lower his eyes ashamed to go on momentarily and cleared his throat before looking up again. “I began abusing the intelligence I was blessed to have and for that I am ashamed. I am very good with computers. Even high on narcotics I could hack into hospital data bases; any records of my visits were erased. I could get my hands on hundreds of pills in one day of emergency room hopping. When the pills, no matter how many I took, weren’t enough to _feed the beast_ controlling my life, I began washing them down with the alcohol I was already consuming from the time I woke until I went to bed – passed out really. Drunk, high, drunk and high – didn’t stop me from getting my fix.”

Harold had a hard time continuing thinking about reaching rock bottom there in Rome; he had glanced about locking on Ardent’s face to see Evan smiling at him as if encouraging him to go on. Except for a brief glimpse of Ardent entering the building as Harold had stepped into the elevator the day John had died and the research Harold had done on Evan recently, there was no reason to feel any kind of connection with the former Samaritan agent, yet Harold felt something calming and encouraging, something familiar even, as the two of them exchanged looks.

Harold braced himself and admitted that coming to one morning lying on the bathroom floor, the room reeking of the urine and vomit, after his having been passed out for days had been his wake-up call. Harold Corbin finished by saying, “I threw out every pill, dumped the booze down the drain, and attended a meeting two hours later for the first time. I have been clean and sober for five years with the help of AA and a former addict, my friend – my sober companion – who helped keep me straight. While I have gotten back on track with my IT career, I work from home part-time so I can be a sober companion and available day or night to help anyone the way my friend helped me.”

Harold left to the applause coming from the group as he took his seat. He sat beside Manuel; both men listening to several others who had went to the front to share. When Delgado got up to call a close to the meeting, Harold rose from his chair and made his way out the exit and to the church’s office again.

Finch sat on an old waiting room chair. He observed the little office’s fixtures and contents more closely while attempting to tamp down the nervous flutter in his stomach that he had been feeling since he had first set eyes on the living, breathing Evan Ardent. _What is it about this man that has my palms sweating when I never had this reaction before interviewing the previous twenty ex-assassins to help me with the numbers?_

It wasn’t that long, only a few minutes, yet the time Finch had waited seemed much longer when Manuel followed Evan Ardent into the office. Harold stood immediately, wiped his hand inconspicuously and quickly on his pants leg as he got up, before offering it the man he had been waiting to see. Their hands only clasped for split-second yet the sensation of Evan’s palm against his lingered much, much longer and it was...pleasant.

Delgado hadn’t even attempted a word of casual conversation before getting right down to the reason why they were together and told Ardent about Corbin’s offer of being a sober companion to someone in the group. Nor had Manuel pulled any punches that his friend needed help and he had made the decision that Evan would benefit the most – a decision Harold had surreptitiously nudged Delgado into making.

They all discussed what living with a sober companion entailed and Harold had been surprised when Ardent had accepted the invitation without pause, even seeming to be anxious to begin staying with Corbin at his apartment right away.

Harold hadn’t expected things to progress that quickly or that Ardent would want to get started as soon as possible; Finch had planned on having more time to reveal who he really was and why he had sought out Ardent. However as unprepared as Harold was, he invited Evan to accompany him to the safe-house that night.

When the other man had readily agreed Harold was – pleased – this was far from what he should be experiencing. He should be filled with at least some trepidation not knowing how Evan Ardent would react to his revelation or fear that the man would react angrily by slamming the door in his face, or worse, before he could finish explaining all let alone offer the former NSA operative a job.

The apartment they walked to Harold had purchased through an agent before ever returning to New York. It was just fortuitous that it was close to the church where the number worked part-time.

The reason for his buying an apartment in the new building was because of its location near the site of the missile strike where John Reese had lost his life. Harold had been assured that from the apartment’s windows on the top floor he would have an unobstructed view of the new building being raised there for _Empire State Bank’s_ corporate offices.

It gave Finch some small amount of comfort, as strange as it was, to look out at the bank building’s place in the city’s skyline knowing the financial institution he had chosen to handle the account of the foundation created in John’s name was located on the spot Reese had lost his life. To everyone else the towering building of glass that reflected everything around it like a mirrored giant was just another towering fixture on the streets of the Big Apple, but to Harold Finch it was a sparkling memorial to the finest man – a true hero – he had had the privilege to know and love.

Most nights now Harold stayed in John’s old loft, but this new safe-house would be where he would stay while on a mission, beginning with the number Manuel Delgado and hopefully working with his new partner Evan Ardent if he accepts the job. Harold believed that if things ever became too difficult he could regroup here in this safe-house, look out the window, and find the strength to continue. 

Harold had been lost in his own thoughts about the apartment along with how to reveal the truth about why he was with Ardent now, how to tell the former agent of the NSA about that agency, Samaritan, the numbers, and the Machine. Harold rarely spoke to Ardent as they walked along, but even with his mind occupied as it was he couldn’t help noticing Evan strode alongside him so close they were constantly brushing up against one another – hands, elbows, shoulders. Harold Finch, with the exceptions of Nathan, Grace, or John most of all, had rarely tolerated anyone invading his personal space that way. Why he didn’t put distance between Ardent and himself was another addition to the strange reactions Evan had brought out in him since they first locked eyes at the meeting.

In no time at all, and much too soon in Harold’s mind, they were at the double doors of shining, spotlessly clean windows mounted into the arched entrance of decorative glass and gleaming silver of Harold Corbin’s building. He shouldn’t be disappointed that his closeness to Ardent and the companionable silence between them as they walked was over, already, but he was.

Finch watched the one-time Samaritan hitman access the lax security without appearing to do so and he could tell Ardent was less than impressed. So had Harold been that first time he had crossed the unattended lobby and entered the elevator. Five minutes after going into his apartment Harold had been on the phone to _Ace Security_.

By the end of the second day the security company’s installation team had put in the thumb print activated-deactivated alarm system with its key locked code entry panel and keypad operated security shutters at each window. Top floor or not, too many of the numbers he and John had saved had been attacked in high rise offices or homes, the culprits entering through shattered windows.

When they entered the apartment Ardent quickly looked away when Harold went to deactivate the alarm, but Harold caught the satisfied expression on Evan’s face as if what he saw was more in the order of what he expected. When Harold had taken care of the alarm and made his way to the kitchen to make their drinks after offering Ardent a seat, he could see on the ex-operative’s face that Evan was even more impressed and, was there a bit of relief there too? _If I hadn’t watched John for five years and learned to read his face so well, I couldn’t read Evan’s now._

Harold went about starting the kettle to heat water and the coffeemaker to brew a pot of _leaded_. He decided to make sandwiches to give himself a bit of time to decide how further to proceed and Evan Ardent the opportunity to further satisfy his appraisal of who Harold Corbin was by checking out the room. Harold pretended to be totally absorbed in the kitchen, giving Ardent the impression he could delve away unnoticed.

The apartment was furnished with many things so similar to those in the abandoned safe-house that Samaritan’s agents had eventually ransacked and destroyed. Not one thing there gave any clue about the man Harold Finch and except for the impression that the occupant was well-off; there was nothing to be gleaned here about him or his cover Harold Corbin as well. No matter Harold Corbin didn’t exist and Ardent would find out soon enough.

Harold picked up the sandwich tray and started for the living room; he had to smile when Evan jumped up from the sofa and sprinted over. Finch had lived long enough with his disability; he could discern almost immediately between an honest effort to assist and pity accompanying the offer from someone who thought him weak. Evan’s action just now was another reminder how much Evan was like John.

Harold grabbed the steaming mugs, the only items with the slightest hint of his or his alter-ego’s likes. Birds. Hand painted in bright beautiful colors on the mugs pottery glaze. Why Evan’s eyes glinted with unsuppressed happiness when he looked at the gold finch on his mug before he sipped his coffee, even more as he picked up one of the dainty sandwiches, Finch couldn’t hazard to guess. What Finch did do was let himself remember fondly of John and the finer things he was able to give the former assassin. Mr. Reese, who had never experienced any of the niceties of life, at least not without being involved in a mission with bodies attached to it.

Still enjoying these things now in the company of this man who reminded him so much of John was only a shallow cover-up of the nervousness Harold was beginning to feel now that he could no longer put off coming clean. Even though Ardent didn’t ask why, Harold could tell that he noticed his host’s nervousness. _It’s time to man up as they say._

Harold coughed behind his hand to clear his throat, “I have to confess that I brought you here under false pretenses.”

Harold almost could feel his face drain of color when Evan smirked and raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Is my virtue in danger?”

Ardent’s eyes might be as brown as the hair on his head but for one startling second Harold saw John’s face, blue eyes twinkling merrily knowing he had completely derailed Harold’s train of thought by what he had just said and done.

_Pull yourself together. You were just thinking of John. That’s all it was._

Harold quickly recovered, but still his words were so reminiscent of his first real encounter with John Reese, John’s face continued to hover in the background of his mind as he said them,

“Certainly not. I just meant that I know you are not going to benefit from therapy, pills, or a sober companion. A man such as yourself needs a purpose.”

Harold wasn’t surprised when Evan Ardent reacted much the same way John Reese had when Harold Finch had spoken similar words to him. Ardent stood, walked to the window, and looked out. Harold could hear the self-loathing in the man's voice as Evan snapped, “What kind of man do you think I am?”

Harold calmly, yet strongly replied, “A **man** who served his country.”

Sarcasm drenched Evan’s next words, “Any chump can be taught to shoot a target and peel potatoes.”

Determined not to back out of telling Ardent the truth and setting this man's mind somewhat at ease in the process, Harold got up from the coach to go over and stand next to him at the window. Finch tapped into that strength viewing the bank building, John’s memorial as Harold called it in his heart, gave him now.

“I’ll tell you what kind of man you are. You were not some **chump** , Mr. Ardent. You were an honorable soldier, finely honed, and loyal to your country. So uniquely skilled you were recruited by an agency of the US government. As wonderful as this country is, unfortunately its agencies are often...not. While doing what they think is best for this country and its people their actions are often reprehensible and corrupt. You were sucked in, used by the NSA, and ordered to do things you began to question as morally wrong.”

Harold then reached out to touch Ardent’s arm, getting the man to look down at him so Harold could see he had Evan’s attention before continuing, “Your last order from the NSA was to kill a terrorist, a man responsible for releasing a devastating computer virus. You refused to kill that man you were sent after resulting in you being mortally wounded by your partner.”

Harold took a deep breath and then continued, “I was the man you were ordered to kill. I released the Ice-9 virus. I have had many names in my lifetime, none of them the one I was born with. The man you were sent to kill was known as Harold Finch.”

Ardent backed away enough to turn and stare angrily down at Harold. Evan lifted his hands and clenched them into fists, as he dealt with shock and confusion simultaneously. “I was almost killed because I thought you were innocent.”

~*~

Harold unconsciously raised his hands protectively to his face, “Please, let me explain!?!”

John regretted immediately having Harold believe Ardent could hit him. He relaxed his hands, yet continued on with Evan’s words the only things still raised in anger. “Explain what? Explain why you pretended to be someone you are definitely not to help me with my addiction, when what happened because of you is one of the reasons I am an alcoholic now.”

John’s pretend tirade echoed off the walls frightening even himself at the intensity of it all, fake or no, yet Harold stood up to him regardless of the hands he had raised protectively at first. Still John asked, “What could you tell me anyways that would change a thing?”

Harold saw Evan’s hands relax and drop to his side; Harold lowered his in return. It was a relief although he never believed that Evan would ever become violent with him. It had just been an uncontrolled gut reaction to protect himself that he had raised his in the first place.

Harold looked up at Ardent with unblinking eyes, open and honest, “If you will allow me, I think I can explain to you how and why everything played out the way it did up until I sought you out at the church tonight; that would include that day almost one year ago when **we both** almost lost our lives. Most of all I need to tell you about that purpose I think you need and I can give you to overcome your addiction.”

Reese didn’t think Harold Corbin would tell Evan anything he, John, didn’t already know, including that purpose, but he nodded and pointed over towards the sofa indicating they should both sit back down. John still warned, even while knowing he could not, yet as Harold might expect Evan to do, “If I think you are lying to me or that this purpose I seem to need is pure bull shit, I walk. You never track me down again. Deal?”

Harold bowed his head slightly, yet kept his eyes fixed on Evan’s face. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as he waited for Ardent’s next move in a rush of air, “Agreed.”

Without either of them saying another word they returned to their places on the sofa. John followed slightly behind so Harold couldn’t see how relieved he was. When Harold picked up their mugs instead of sitting and looked at Evan for approval, John had donned the mask of banked anger once more. Evan flung a hand in direction of the kitchen and said flippantly, “I sure as hell could use something stronger right now but coffee is all you’ll allow me to have. So please, go right ahead, and get me another cup.”

When Harold returned with two more steaming cups, John thought Evan should diffuse the tension in the room and apologized, “Sorry about what I just said. A drink right now is the last thing I need; I was angry. I’m ready to listen now.” He took the mug from Harold’s hand and sat down.

Harold put his cup on the coffee table and then sat down himself, “Thank you Mr. Ardent.” He turned slightly on the sofa to face Evan almost directly. “I can’t promise you that you'll never see me again, you’ll understand soon enough why, but I will never bother you again if you tell me to go to hell and walk away.”

John took a deep gulp of his barely cooled coffee, letting the slight burn as the liquid went down kill the sudden impulse to abort his plans to act the part of Evan Ardent any longer. He was going to protect Harold, love him in secret, even if Harold hadn't truly cared about John Reese. His mug joined Harold’s on table, “Fair enough.”

Harold took in a deep breath and then let it out. “I guess starting at the very beginning is the best place to start.”

For the next two hours the two sat together and talked. From day one of The Machine’s inception up until the day of Samaritan's destruction and Harold thought his creation had been destroyed, when the both of them had almost lost their lives; Harold Finch left out nothing. Well except for ever being in love with John Reese, his partner in saving the irrelevant numbers and the war against Samaritan until Reese had been killed.

“I am so very sorry you were hurt sparing my life that day and for the difficulties you have had in yours. Not just in the past year but possibly since the day The Machine started sending relevant numbers to the government. I know it only became worse when Samaritan went online and the NSA became its foil. The government, the NSA and in turn Samaritan were able to exploit you.”

John knew from Evan’s memories locked in his mind that what Harold said was true. Missions Ardent went on became less and less spying for information or seeking out threats. They became killing without prejudice more and more, assassinations without provocation. “And you found this out from your machine.” It was not a question. “How does everything you have told me help me out now?”

“All you ever wanted to do was help people,” Harold repeated word for word what he once said to John Reese. “They used that against you. When Samaritan was destroyed, the agency cut you loose with no explanation why. You have drifted with no purpose, succumbing to drinking away that feeling of uselessness. I can give you a chance to help people again, give you purpose again, and I will never use you the way the government did.”

John knew what Finch was going to do next, offer Evan the job to help him with the numbers, but he asked, “How do you plan on making me feel useful again? Give me that purpose you say I need to fight my addiction?”

Harold was the one to go the window this time and gaze out at the lights now illuminating the city. Without looking back, Harold answered, “We all need purpose, Mr. Ardent, including me. I thought I lost mine when I believed The Machine to have been destroyed. No more numbers, no more mission to save them. I tried to make a normal life for myself with my ex-fiancé Grace, but we both had changed too much to love each other again other than as friends. We said our goodbyes, and I was all alone, rudderless. I did turn to alcohol and pills, nearly killing myself. My wake-up call happened the way I said it did. Only there were no meetings. I no longer received numbers from The Machine, but I committed myself to helping the victims of violence by funding law enforcement.”

That answered the question of where Finch had been, he had went to Italy as John thought he would. He wasn’t surprised Finch had returned to Grace; he wanted Harold to be happy with her after he was gone. Only that was then, now John was relieved they hadn’t worked out. He had to be near Harold; it would be hard enough pretending to be Evan and not be loved by Harold, but to see him with Grace now would be hell.

John noticed Harold had stopped speaking, had turned from the window to watch Evan. “Of course, you are wondering what this has to do with you?” Harold stated more the asked. This time when Harold returned he just sat back down when John put his hand on his cup and shook his head no.

“It took hours upon hours sitting at my computers to covertly access all my wealth once more; I had to be careful, I didn’t know what alarms I might set off – what attention touching my accounts could attract. I didn’t need the money for myself but to set up scholarships, fund agencies and training facilities for law enforcement.”

Harold stopped, stood up, and grabbed their mugs, “I hope you don’t mind if I continue after a bit. I need a refill, how about you?” He really wasn’t trying to procrastinate; tea always calmed and energized him at the same time. He needed to be both to continue on.

“Yes, please.” John got up also while grabbing the empty tray, “I can slap some more sandwiches together, if you want me to.”

Harold merely nodded and led the way into the kitchen, Evan right behind him.

When they were both seated again, a laden tray and two steaming cups, one tea, one coffee on the table in front of them, Harold took up where he left off.

“Oddly enough I had just returned to my computers with a fresh cup of tea when my monitors began running lines of code, The Machine’s code. It was, alive, and reaching out to me.” Harold gushed excitedly as if it just happened.  

Even while knowing that The Machine had survived, John still couldn’t help being completely stunned. Harold saw that look and thought that Ardent might enact his _bull shit clause_. “Go on!” John urged so Harold would, go on.

Harold did and John listened. He found out Finch had been aided by The Machine setting things in motion to begin working the numbers again, including a revamped hide-away. He had to pretend he never knew about the Library, something Evan wouldn’t have knowledge of, but was secretly glad to know he would soon be going _home_. 

“I found my real purpose again, working the numbers. Only I am not physically able to do this alone. I need a partner, someone with the skills to help me intervene when someone is in danger or a danger as the case may be.” Harold paused then looked at Evan hopefully, “Will you be my partner, Mr. Ardent. Will you let my purpose become yours?”

John had made up his mind the moment Harold Corbin looked at Evan Ardent from that podium that he would say yes and never leave Harold Finch again. But Evan Ardent needed to find out for himself, like John Reese had, what saving a number or stopping a perpetrator really entailed. “I am not saying I believe all this nor do I think you are full of it either. You said if I walk away you would leave me alone, but I would still see you. Why?” Evan asked.

Harold looked abashed that he had omitted that detail in his anxiousness to tell all. “Ah yes. I’m sorry I forgot to mention that important detail. I am sure you have surmised by now from that statement my reason for being at that meeting tonight was not just to recruit you. The latest number I received from The Machine is your friend Manuel Delgado.”

John didn’t believe Delgado was a perpetrator for one second after everything he had done for Evan since Ardent had been shot, well in many years of friendship before that so he told Harold, “Here’s the deal. I help you save Manuel from the danger he is in and I’ll decide then to stay or go.” _I stayed with Harold when he recruited John Reese, I’ll stay with him now as Evan Ardent._

Harold breathed a sigh of relief. Evan agreed to help the number, Delgado. Harold thought about that bench next to the river, John’s face bruised from being the hit by the DA’s dirty cops. They had stopped Diane Hansen together. Without a word between them John had agreed to stay as they both sat there silently side by side.  “Then I’ll just have to do everything in my power to save Manuel Delgado and convince you to take the job, permanently.”

Their conversation over John made his way to the door intending to leave, but Harold told him to go ahead and stay the night. Evan could bring what he wanted to the apartment tomorrow, but for tonight he could find everything he needed in the spare bedroom and bath.

John headed in the direction of the bedroom instead stopping at its door. Now that Evan knew Corbin wasn’t Harold’s last name, he asked, “Harold Corbin isn’t your name, what do I call you when we are alone?”

Harold thought for a moment. Of all his aliases Finch was his favorite because Harold Finch had fallen in love with John Reese. Evan Ardent was going to help him continue working the numbers; the mission to save the Irrelevants that Harold had dedicated himself to for John’s sake would go on. _John would understand_. Harold smiled and said, “You can call me, Mr. Finch.”

John went into his room and closed the door then leaned against it smiling, “Indeed I will Mr. Finch, indeed I will.”

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saving numbers together  
> John/Evan is shot saving an Irrelevant, Harold comes to the rescue  
> The truth finally comes out who Evan is
> 
> A/N In Three Parts Now


	7. John Comes Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold makes a decision.  
> Trusting Evan means all the way or not at all.  
> John returns to the Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My unfulfilled wish was that the boys would somehow make it back to the Library.  
> TPTB failed me there.  
> If you want something done, DO IT YOURSELF. And I have.  
> Hope you enjoy reading this chapter as I did writing it.  
> This chapter just kept getting bigger and bigger with the big reveal nowhere in sight.

 

John had a hard time finding sleep or if he did it was light and brief. The reason for his insomnia was in part of course his mind whirling in all directions about going back to work. He owed Ardent this, saving Evan’s staunchest friend Manuel’s life. Ardent in a way had given his life so John could live; the least John could do would be to find – to take out the threat to that special number's very existence.

And John owed this to himself, to take every advantage of the gift a power greater than The Machine, Samaritan, or any godlike man made entity could ever claim to be or have, had given John Reese.

Most of all he owed his or Evan’s very best to be the partner Harold Finch needed to help the innocents or stop the perpetrators. Even while believing the mission was all that mattered to Harold when they were together and Harold’s professed feelings for John weren’t real – just a necessity, John always saw the mission in itself as noble and good. John Reese and Harold Finch together were the mission. Now it would be John Reese and Harold Finch again. The covers on the books labeled Reese and Finch were very different now, but the works inside remained true.

Yes, nerves about tomorrow and the days following kept John awake. Only the main reason John couldn't sleep was the man Harold Finch. So close and yet so far, from the person John loved most in the world. Doubts about Harold’s feelings aside, John still wanted and needed to be near him. Finch was lying in the next room in his own bed, head and neck more than likely supported by Harold’s special made pillow – John wanted nothing more right now than to lie next to him, head on Harold’s shoulder, with Harold’s hand combing through his hair.

John tossed a pillow at his feet and sat up punching the air as he did so. Never again: he’d given all that up on that rooftop. _Screw sleep. I need some of that starter fluid Finch brewed last night._ John pulled on a pair of sweatpants and headed towards the kitchen. It was only 5 AM, so John moved quietly through the apartment.

He pulled up short at the archway between living room and kitchen. The heart beating in his chest was not really his but it still jumped when he saw Finch sitting at the kitchen table, back to the entrance and attention fully absorbed in the windows of information filling the computer screen in front of him.

Harold was sleep rumpled, his long hair mussed, and wearing a worn to comfortable terry cloth robe, matching slippers on his feet. Not a sight for sore eyes by any stretch of the imagination to anyone else but for John it was an answered prayer.

John stood silently watching, again asking himself why he had given all this up – Harold Finch looking less than perfect in their alone time and not caring one iota. Maybe his professed feelings for John Reese weren’t real, but Finch had let John inside those walls of his.

Harold was flipping through screen after screen faster than John could keep up only not so much that he couldn’t tell this computer research was about Delgado, so John coughed to announce he was in the room.

~ * ~

Harold had said his goodnights to Evan, briefly mentioning he would be taking Ardent first thing tomorrow to their headquarters, _The Library_. He lay there for hours looking up at the ceiling debating how much of it to reveal to his new partner. Should he bring Mr. Ardent upstairs only as far as the club office or take him beyond?

So far none the previous hires had ever known about the secrets _The Library_ held. They hadn’t been trusted enough to be shown the hidden door that opened to the room on the other side. No recruit had ever beheld the stacks of books, including the locked floor-to-ceiling gilded case holding Finch’s special editions which had somehow escaped destruction when Samaritan’s fake FBI agents and NYPD police officers had ransacked the old building. Besides Finch, the only person to walk between the shelves, to climb the stairs to the third floor and the new hub, mission control with the repaired glass board and desk with Finch’s actual computer station, had been Leon Tao.

The former accountant, jack-of-all-schemes to make a quick fortune, and former number had been the one Finch had reached out to be Harold’s eyes and hands on _The Library's_ rise from the ashes. Tao had helped them more than once pre-Samaritan, disappeared at Harold’s request when that AI had come online, and agreed without question to help Harold get everything set right when Finch had tracked Tao down in New Orleans and asked for his assistance. Leon had been deeply saddened to hear of John’s death, but honored to be asked to be a part of the mission’s reaffirmation, now dedicated to the Man-In-The-Suit.

“Reese was a crazy son of a bitch at times but one of the best men I have ever met. Just say the word and I’m there Finchy.” Leon’s use of the nickname through the static filled receiver of the cheap burner phone he’d used to make the international call to New Orleans had made him cringe. Yet true to his word Leon Tau was back in New York City overseeing the remodeling of the old building forty-eight hours after Harold had ended the call and twenty-four hours after Harold had overnighted the _FedEx_ package containing detailed instructions and a first-class airline ticket, one way, to NYC.

The thing was Leon Tao had earned Harold’s trust. Repeat number that he was always getting himself into dangerous situations, Leon had never failed John or himself when they had enlisted his help. Mr. Evan Ardent though was an unknown. Harold had to tread carefully. Just because every time he was in the man's physical presence and his instincts screamed, ‘Trust him!’ Harold’s good sense dictated the waters be tested before jumping in feet first. This mental war would not let him sleep.

Harold sat up in bed, put on his glasses, and checked the time. It was only 4:00 in the morning but Harold got out of bed, slipped on his robe, grabbed his laptop and headed for the kitchen.

Harold was seated at the small dinette well into his fourth cup of tea and researching all of Delgado’s known acquaintances one more time looking for anything he might have missed. He was so engrossed in his investigations that he was startled when the man who had occupied his thoughts for the last four hours cleared his throat and asked, “Mind if I make me some coffee and join you. I’m sorry if I intruded into something I shouldn’t have, I couldn’t sleep either, but maybe together we can spot something suspicious.”

Harold blathered, “Be my guest. You know where everything is.” More calmly he added, “And please, do not apologize. I planned on showing you later this morning everything I had found out in regards to anyone Mr. Delgado has had even the slightest contact with. But since sleep has evaded the both of us now is as good a time as any to put our heads together as it were and find the threat to your friend.”

~*~

At seven Harold shut down his laptop with a grunt of frustration, “There is nothing here. Looks like we have to resort to field work. You, Mr. Ardent will tail Delgado when he is working or taking his Shepherd to the park, I will do what I can from _The Library_ , and both of us will be attending every nightly addicts meeting. One of us will clone Manuel’s phone if the threat only makes contact that way. I will set up surveillance around and inside his apartment so Ernest can watch for anything amiss when Manuel is inside his home.”

Finch stood up to put their mugs in the sink and turned to Evan, “Speaking of _The Library_ , it’s time I took you there, show you around, and introduce you to its guardian angel. I’m going to shower and get dressed. Can you be ready in say, thirty minutes?”

When the two of them exited the building forty minutes later John held the door open for Harold while he slipped into _protect Finch_ mode as easy as it was to take his next breath. While scanning everything around them, it was a bit unexpected when Finch turned to walk in the opposite direction of the church. John had to do an about-face and a double-step to catch up.

John believed there to be a grain of truth in the cover story that Corbin avoided going anywhere not within walking distance unless it was absolutely necessary and then only using the MTA. The nearest bus stop was right across from Delgado’s apartment complex and a block from the church. It wouldn’t appear suspicious that the two of them would be waiting there; Harold had already informed Delgado he had a new job lined up for Evan, in another part of the city. John thought they would check on the number before catching the 8:30 #17 bus that passed by the library on its route about the city – funny the things you remember from years ago, every bus route that passed by or ran near the old building.

Except for an almost inaudible harrumph at Evan’s miscue, Harold kept silent as they made their way to a parking garage in the next block and gave no explanation as to why. After they took the elevator to the top level and John followed Harold to a black four-door – a new Lincoln Towncar, the manufacturer sticker still in the window – backed into a permit-only stall, Harold broke his silence. Not hiding his amusement Finch chuckled at the puzzled expression on his new employee’s face, and smirked, “My cover, Harold Corbin, has issues still using any mode of transportation, but Harold Finch does not. Not anymore. I especially love to drive. Care to get in, Mr. Ardent?”

John climbed into the passenger seat and sat back as Harold guided the sedan down each ramp and around each curve, floor by floor, a little faster than was allowed, but with no more braking or screech of rubber on pavement than if the car was creeping along.

Harold slowed down enough to time driving through the non-attended exit and under the raised guard arm without stopping. Finch smoothly guided the car onto the street into the busy morning traffic, foot never leaving the accelerator. John settled back into the luxury sedan’s buttery soft leather seat thinking Harold’s driving hadn’t suffered from whatever incident had driven him to using booze and pills. It was even better than…

John Reese was unaware that disabled Harold Finch was even able to drive with the eccentric’s own limo drivers or paid car services taking the billionaire everywhere he needed to go. With all the covert spying he or Lionel Fusco had done on Reese’s new boss, John had no idea the enigmatic recluse could in-fact, drive. Not until the night John’s former CIA handler Mark Snow had convinced Detective Carter – the NYPD detective determined to capture John Reese herself – to help him bring in a rogue operative and instead had John ambushed on a hospital's rooftop.

Delirious, bleeding out, and inches from death, John had warned Finch to stay away when he had told John to hold on; Harold was coming for him. When with the last ounce of the strength John had left in him he pushed open the exit door to ground level, he had never been so relieved in his life to see Harold driving a black sedan up the entrance ramp like a bat out of hell, the Lincoln's undercarriage bouncing off the pavement as it approached.

Finch had leapt out of the car almost before it stopped and moved around the front of it to get to John before he fell faster than Harold’s injuries should have allowed. With a strength John never thought Finch had in him, Harold had wrapped his arms around John, holding him up while staring down Carter. Finch only let go to get back behind the wheel of the car when Carter holstered her gun and made to help John onto the rear seat.

John hadn’t lost total consciousness until being treated by Mandani in the morgue, but was out of it long before then. And yet, John could remember Harold maneuvering through traffic at breakneck speed away from Snow or Carter too if she changed her mind. Harold had driven through the streets with a skill to be envied by any race car driver or New York City hack. And today, years later, Harold Finch had only gotten better if that could even be possible.

 _Harold Finch risked his life to rescue my sorry ass. He had to have loved me_.

Harold pulled into a tri-level parking garage tabbed, **_parking for club patrons only_** , and a reserved spot on the ground level next to the two building’s adjoining wall for **_Harold Scricciolo_**. Switching off the engine he turned and asked, “Ready to tour HQ, Mr. Ardent?”

John intended to tell Harold the unbelievable truth, that Evan Ardent’s spirit had left its earthbound body and that body was now hosting the spirit of one John Reese. “Yes. I just need to tell you something first,” John said brokenly, a nervousness he had never known before making his throat feel like it was being coated with acid.

Finch probably thought Evan was having some kind of panic attack now that the real introduction to working the numbers was at hand and responded as reassuringly as he could, “Go on, Mr. Ardent. I’m listening.”

John swallowed hard and breathed in deep, “Finch, I’m not who you think I am.”

When Harold narrowed his eyes at Ardent’s use of the name Finch without the _Mr._ , John paused to apologize. The hesitation was just long enough to let Root’s long ago taunt, ‘ _Do you think you are Harold’s first helper monkey? Do you believe you will be his last? He can replace you with any knuckle dragging Neanderthal whenever he chooses,’_ remind him why he could never tell Harold who he was.

“I’m sorry. **Mr.** Finch,” John sincerely corrected himself, “I am not who you think I am.”

Finch nodded that Ardent’s apology was accepted and urged Evan, “Go on. I am still listening.”

John kept silent about his true identity and instead stammered out as if Evan believed it, “I don’t think I am the right man for this job. I was sent to kill you. I was an unwitting agent for the monster that murdered your ex-partner. I can’t be trusted to work for you.”

“Of course you can be trusted. I trust you. The Machine trusts you, remember? It is never wrong. The first day at a new job is always the worst. Come on Mr. Ardent. I have someone you need to meet.” And without another word, Harold got out of the car and headed for an entrance that was marked ‘ _For Employees Only’_ , not bothering to look back one time to make sure Ardent followed.

~*~

As much as it should have concerned him that Ardent had been caught flat-footed, Harold was equally pleased he could get one up on a field hardened government operative. Harold wasn’t pulling his arm out of its socket patting himself on the back by any means; he credited what just happened to Evan Ardent’s rustiness.

It was when his new partner still appeared confused as hell when they walked up to Harold’s garaged car, Harold concluded Ardent had thought his cover identity’s hang-ups were also his own, hence Evan's assumption they would be using the MTA. It was wrong of Harold to sound smug when he informed Evan that Harold Corbin’s issues were not Harold Finch’s but he was still feeling inappropriately cocky.

Having admitted loving to drive, Harold couldn’t help but show off his prowess behind the wheel. Finch was more than pleased that despite not having operated a car in over a year, except for test driving the one they were in now, he was as sharp as ever.

Of the many physical actions the permanent injuries from the ferry explosion had taken away from him, driving a car was not one of them. Harold had been afraid to even try at first, but attempting to work the numbers alone: necessity dictated he had to drive. Confined to a wheelchair and just barely able to walk a few steps out of it, getting behind the wheel of a car made him feel whole again, free. Harold Finch loved to drive because it was the one thing he could do as well or better than anyone else. Not everyone was a genius so being exceptional in an exceptional group of people was abnormal; except for Nathan and then Grace the world shied away from him for it. Doing something most every person could extraordinarily well made him feel not so alone. After the accident, that ability made him feel like he wasn’t a freak with his stiff neck and halting gait; he felt usefully alive.

Harold wanted to just keep driving. At first it was because his ego was being stroked with Ardent relaxed in the passenger seat and appearing to be very impressed with the way his new boss handled the car in busy NYC traffic. That changed though when Harold glanced over to see that Ardent looked to be a million miles away and the expression on his face spoke volumes as to how much his passenger wanted to stay there. Harold often slipped into his memories of John and wished for nothing to interrupt those thoughts: yet something always would. Harold didn’t want them reaching _The Library_  and stopping to be what jarred Ardent from his good place, but duty called.

It wasn’t totally unexpected for Ardent to be nervous now that it was time to actually get to work and to express his doubts about being the partner Harold should depend on – especially with the man's history. The impression Harold had that Evan was going to say something else flitted away quickly with his need to show how much he did believe in the man.

Harold assured his new right hand firmly, “Of course you can be trusted. I trust you. The Machine trusts you, remember? It is never wrong. The first day at a new job is always the worst. Come on Mr. Ardent. I have someone you need to meet.” Not waiting for the other man to open his door as Harold got out of his, Harold turned to face straight ahead and without any hesitation headed in the direction of the employee entrance.

As Harold walked away from the car, he made the decision to show his new employee _The Library’s_ secrets. Every one of them. Time to trust his instincts and backup his own words. The Machine **is** never wrong, Ernest believes in Evan Ardent and so should he.

~*~

The employee entrance was locked; during the time it took for Harold to fish the ring of keys to _The Library’s_ doors out of his pocket to unlock it, John was able to close the distance between them in a few long strides to follow Harold inside without him having to hold the door waiting.

Going inside they entered what used to be a short hallway between the break room for the prior city library’s staff and the public restrooms. The doorways and the walls segregating them were gone and the entire space remodeled into a combination lounge/locker room.

With Harold leading the way they exited the locker room into a well-equipped, spotlessly clean and gleaming commercial kitchen. Gone were the cubicle desks partitioned from one another with plexiglass panels for patrons to sit at to read, do research, or use the public PCs that at one time inhabited six of the counters.

Harold flipped on some light switches before pushing through a set of louvered wood swinging doors. John followed and looked around as the flood lights flicked on one by one to illuminate the chic bar, candle-lit tables nestled among tastefully replicated bookshelves, and polished hardwood dance floor of a night club.

John’s quick intake of breath at seeing the complete and totally unexpected transformation of the trash and book strewn main floor of the derelict library he remembered to a flashy and no doubt popular always packed to capacity nightspot called _The Library_ didn’t go unnoticed.

Harold misinterpreted John’s gasp, “I know for a secret headquarters this place is hardly... _secret_ , Mr. Ardent.” Finch gazed around the main floor looking very pleased with the whole set-up and explained, “Two or three people continually entering and exiting an abandoned building was bound to attract unwanted attention sooner or later; eventually it did. I prefer it to be never again. Employees, delivery people, or cleaning crews bustling in and out during the day along with huge crowds coming and going at all hours to a popular night spot is to be expected; you as the new bouncer and I as the club’s owner fit in, not stick out.”

 _Harold, you really outdid yourself. This is not what I expected, but you couldn’t have devised a better way to hide in plain sight._ John said out loud, “Mr. Finch, I am impressed.”

“You haven’t been given the full tour, care to…” Finch was interrupted by a man calling to him from above them. John noticed the grimace on Harold’s face before he turned to look upwards at the person who had called out, “Finchy!”

John clenched his hands because he recognized that voice; thoughts of punching the little pain in the ass needed to be clamped down because Evan Ardent wouldn’t know the little schemer from Adam. John had to practically bite his tongue to keep from blurting out, “Leon!” when no other than Leon Tao came out of a door at the top of the winding stairs and descended them to make his way towards Harold and himself.

“Ah! Mr. Tao!” Harold greeted the man as he approached. When Tao stopped in front of them, Finch asked, “Anything happen with the number while we were on our way here?”

Leon shook his head no, “Last I checked, Delgado was still sawing logs, safe and sound in bed, Max the Wonderdog sprawled over the foot of it.” Turning to look John up and down, he snapped his gum and asked, “This the new guy?”

Harold gave a slight nod to the affirmative and opened his hand in front of John, “Mr. Tao, meet Mr. Evan Ardent, _The Library's_ new bouncer and my mission partner.”

In turn Harold held out his hand palm up towards Leon. “Mr. Ardent, Mr. Leon Tao, club manager of _The Library_ , its guardian, and permanent resident; also the person who mans surviellance when I am unable to.”

Introductions made, Harold asked Leon to go upstairs and prepare Ardent's new hire forms. They would be up later; Harold was taking Mr. Ardent to see The Machine.

Leon’s eyes practically bugged out of their sockets and he asked incredulously, “Are you sure, Boss-man?”

Harold answered in a loud and clear voice without a hint of doubt, “I'm sure.”

_What the hell is going on? How did that little weasel become so indispensable to Harold that he is allowed to get away with calling Finch, Finchy?_

John couldn’t help but stand just a bit taller though and smile smugly down at Tao. _Not the only one allowed behind the curtain anymore, are you?_

~*~

A wire mesh freight elevator had replaced the rickety stairs leading to what had been a dank and damp basement filled with cardboard boxes of papers or ancient microfiche – their old readers stacked in a corner. The rotting mildew smell was gone with only the whiff of climate controlled air coming from vents above circulated around the storage room.

Opening the cage door, Harold stepped out and headed to what John thought was a dead end aisle between boxes of liquor and bottled beers leading to a rack of wine bottles. Shrugging his shoulders, John followed right behind wondering why Finch wanted Evan to see the club’s wine selection.

When John stood by his side Harold peered up at him to make sure Evan was watching everything he was about to do. John took note of the bottle of vintage wine Harold pulled from a slot and handed to him – it was one of his and Harold's special occasion favorites. Harold asked him to hold it while he reached into its cubby-hole in the rack and pushed a hidden button.

John felt the bottle being slid from his hands and heard rather than watched Harold returning it back to its slot. His attention was diverted by the whisk of wood rubbing against wood and a retinal scanner sliding into view from its secret compartment hidden in the wall.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ardent.” Harold then nudged Evan to move more to the side, entered a sequence of numbers, and looked into the scanning device. When it flashed a green light, Finch entered another set of scrambled numbers, letters, and characters before stepping back. “If you would Mr. Ardent, look into the scanner and at the green light enter a set of nine numbers of your choice. That will be your access code and only yours.”

John followed Finch’s instructions and the scanner flashed red, yellow, green after he entered the last number; ten seconds after that the entire wall, wine rack and all, crunched open just wide enough for a man to walk through. Harold quickly pushed him through the opening and followed right behind; the wall shuddered as the gap closed moments later. They were no longer in _The Library’s_ basement, but a level below the parking garage which was more than likely not noted on the garage’s publicly accessible construction schematics.

John didn’t need to be told what he was seeing now as he looked around at the blinking lights of twelve servers, and at the computer station located in the middle it all. This was The Machine. Yet, he was still awed at the sight. This was not a bunch of broken down game consoles jury-rigged together in order for the AI to barely survive. This was Harold’s creation in all of its magnificence.

Harold needed to reach out and guide Evan by the arm down the aisle to the terminal before asking, “Please? Sit down here, Mr. Ardent.” He stood to the side of the chair, reached down and pressed a single key on the keyboard as Ardent did so, and then backed a small step away.

John’s head snapped up as his eyes darted from his own/Evan’s face looking back at him on the computer screen and to Finch’s reflection behind him as Harold appeared to be speaking to the room itself, “I’ve connected you to Mr. Ardent’s audio feed.” John nearly jumped out of the chair as a voice not unlike Harold’s spoke through his earpiece, “Good morning Mr. Ardent. I am so pleased to finally meet you in person. I am Ernest.”

Finch never confirmed that The Machine was the someone he wanted Evan to meet, but John could see by pleased look on Harold’s face and the pride in his eyes as the three of them began to talk that it was Ernest.

After almost an hour had passed, John’s conversation with the Machine and Finch ended. He left the subterranean server room with three conclusions. First: Ernest and Harold believed in and trusted without pause one Evan Ardent. Second: Harold no longer viewed The Machine as a thing to fear, but a living being that called himself Ernest, who cared as much about humanity as his father. Third: Ernest wasn’t some omnipotent power only reachable through a single mouthpiece or someone in _god mode_ , instead he was the caring voice on the line listening or responding and ready to help his agents when they called upon him. The one proviso: Ernest would intervene if any lives were in immediate danger without being asked to do so beforehand.

~*~

John followed Harold as they both slowly ascended the winding staircase, the only original fixture of the old library still remaining, to a wide balustrade landing. They stopped there in front of a set of faux oak paneled doors that had replaced the metal gates at the top.

Harold apologized, “I meant to give you these earlier.” He reached into a suit pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “These now belong to you, Mr. Ardent,” Harold said and placed them in the palm of Evan’s hand.

Three color coded keys stamped main, employee, and office were all ringed together on a brown leather fob – an image of the building’s front and the words ‘The Library’ were etched on a metal disc riveted to the material.

John raised an eyebrow at how easily the keys could be identified as to ownership. When Harold noticed he grinned smugly, “We gave out hundreds of these key chains opening week; by appearance only, the one in your hand could belong to almost anyone.” 

“What makes your set and two others unique are the chips embedded in the office key-heads and the decorative medallions.” Harold reached out and laid his hand on an access panel similar to the one which controlled the locks on the door leading to the liquor cellar, except this one had a slot on the left side for an actual key. “The doors cannot be opened by entering the code alone, even if it is the correct one; a chipped key also needs to inserted into the panel and turned first. If not, the entry pad will not function. As added security, using the key and then entering the correct code only sends one positive signal to the locking mechanism for it to disengage; it will only do so when it receives a secondary signal from the chip in the medallion.” 

Finch reached in his slacks pocket for the keys he used earlier to enter the building before telling Evan, “I think showing you will be much easier than walking you through it and I can only use my own in order to demonstrate. Besides there is one more step that needs to be completed before even you can use your set, Mr. Ardent.”

John watched as Harold inserted the red key marked office into the slot and turned it clockwise with his left hand before slowly entering nine numbers with his right. A light on the panel flashed green and Harold placed his left thumb over the medallion. Almost simultaneously the click of a dead-bolt being retracted was heard. Finch removed the key, opened the nearest door inward and motioned John to go in before him.

They entered what was a modern office; John couldn’t help but feel sad knowing this used to be his and Harold’s inner sanctum and seeing there was nothing left except his memories of it. The furnishings were almost new. John could still smell the cedar wood of the desk and the leather of the chair Leon Tao was sitting in.

At the sound of Harold closing the door, Leon looked up from a computer screen that he had been watching intently. He then vacated the chair to walk around the desk and hand Harold a manila folder. Tao then excused himself to go check on a delivery side-eying Evan Ardent warily as he walked past. The melancholy John was feeling eased a bit with the spiteful glee he felt noticing that Leon’s feathers were still ruffled.

When Leon was out of the room Harold put the folder on the desk. “There is really no delivery scheduled, Mr. Ardent. Mr. Tao is just a bit put out that he is no longer the only one with the _keys to the kingdom_.He knew this day would happen, I just don't think he expected or wanted it to be this soon. Please don’t take offense if he blames you for it. I know he will come around and be just as pleased as I am to have you onboard.”

Harold tapped his own earpiece to activate it and informed Tao he was taking Mr. Ardent _upstairs_. John looked around the room puzzled because the only doors that opened were to the staircase which went **down** to the main floor. The doorway leading to the shelves of books on the second floor, the crash room, and the stairs to the third floor was now a solid wall. There was no way up to the Faraday cage they had locked Root in or the dusty, disused storage room with its secret entrance to where Harold actually slept most nights when he wasn’t at John’s apartment or the safehouse and before they had to abandon the building.

Harold lips quirked up, before he chuckled, “One more _looking glass_ to step through, Mr. Ardent. Follow me, if you please.” He turned and walked a few steps to the far left wall and lifted the handset to a wall mounted phone unit; a laminated set of instructions on how to page someone in the club or dial an outside line was taped below it. Finch pressed the numbers to activate the PA. John heard the popping crackle of the speakers as the system activated and the click of the phone being hung-up as Harold did so magnified through them.

When John was beside him Harold tapped the card, “We may be the only ones who have keys to _the office_ , but it is an actual office. Employees, job interviewees, patrons, vendor representatives, any number of individuals involved in the club’s operations are allowed in and they will see a working phone/pager. See being the keyword; no one will ever be alone in the room to do anything else. They will certainly not have time, even if they have by some infinitesimal chance managed to get in here alone without even Ernest being aware plus ascertained the phone is a lock to a hidden door, to enter the right combination of numbers and characters out of 855,738 possibilities. Even one incorrect entry sets off a silent alarm. If you are ever unsure of entering the correct code to any device, just ask Ernest; he will tell you the correct one through your earpiece.”

Finch picked up the handset and announced with a dramatic flair, “Watch closely, Mr. Ardent!” Harold once again entered the access code slow enough for his new partner to remember it. Of course John would remember, #489 – John’s locker number at the fitness center where he had done yoga or worked out and of course Harold would have known. When one of the phone’s line in use lights flashed red Harold entered *564673373.

The sound of wheels moving inside a track along with the shuddering creak of a section of wall moving backwards and then sideways drowned out the whispers John made translating the numbers Finch entered to letters on the phone's buttons. When John realized he was right to believe Harold hadn’t just picked out ten numbers at random and correctly deciphered what they spelled, he drawled out a low, pleased, “Oh!”

Harold took no notice of Evan’s soft exclamation and went through the opening, “You may wish to hurry through the portal, Mr. Ardent. It closes automatically and quite quickly.”

John stepped inside just in time, as the wall moved back into place and brushed against his back foot, nearly tripping him. When he had caught his balance and looked forward, John blinked hard as his jaw dropped at the sight before him.

Harold’s focus was on the end of the hallway he was going towards, so he missed that too. Nor was Finch aware of John moving slowly past the bookcases John remembered being in this exact location on the second floor while running his hand lovingly across the backs of book upon book on the shelves and inhaling deeply the smell he had missed so much; old paper and leather bindings. Nothing had changed here. It was only when John noticed Harold was calling Ardent’s name from atop the stairs that led to the third floor did he hurry along.

Reaching the third floor landing, John had to swallow several times as his throat became tight with emotion. He saw the Library – their Library – as it had been when they were safe here.

To the right, the metal grate that had kept Root locked in a Faraday cage was gone but the shelves of books were still there and a daybed had joined the burgundy divan; both were covered with blankets and pillows: comfortable places to lay down and catch a few Z’s if one needed to be near the base of operations on the left.

John followed Harold’s voice into the old storage room. There next to the far wall sat a huge computer desk; its surface held three monitors, a keyboard and a mouse. The scratched wooden floor was buffed and polished like new; a long narrow rug runner colored a deep burgundy led to the desk.

The broken glass of the board had been replaced and it sat away from one wall. A new cork board, strands of yarn in many different colors that were pinned to it in lines, hung on another. The old wooden file cabinets, brought up from the second floor were aligned next to each other below it.

A smaller room past the desk on the right contained a cramped kitchenette complete with mini-fridge, microwave, a double burner table top stove, a ceramic tea pot, an electric coffee pot, and a box of Sencha green on the counter. The shelves above were stocked with stacks of ramen noodles and hot pockets.

Harold walked over to a window; it was the one with the gold etching that used to be where the office's clear double-pane is now. He stood there for a few minutes looking down at street below. "This is where we, you and I, Mr. Ardent, will work to save lives. If you are still having doubts then you should know that no one, not even Mr. Tao, has worked beside me in this room."

Harold turned and motioned John over to the desk. He bent down to open one of the lower drawers and pulled out a hand held scanner. When Harold straightened back up he asked for Evan to hold out his left hand. Harold's eyebrows furrowed when their hands touched. Did Harold notice the tremor in the hand he held? Harold's fingertips lightly grazing over John's skin, as innocent as it was, was overwhelming with the emotions he was already being undated with.

John was almost in a daze as he let Harold scan Evan’s left thumb print, barely heard Harold say his set of keys was now ready to use, and snapped to attention when Harold asked, “Are you ready to get to work?

John had to tamp down his need to hit his knees and thank whatever power had granted him all this. Instead he walked over to the glass board, Delgado’s picture taped to it, while Harold sat down at his computers and pulled up research on their current number.

John blinked black the moisture now threatening to slide down his cheeks. The part of Evan’s spirit that still remained felt he was now where he belonged, but all that was John Reese rejoiced because he was finally home.

~~*~~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saving Delgado  
> And finally, Evan's identity is revealed.  
> Hopefully posting chapter 8 next week.


	8. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers how important he was to Harold  
> Evan and Harold at _The Library_  
>  Working the Number, part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few hours of the first day working the Number  
> and John 's assumptions that Harold never really cared  
> are proven totally wrong  
> Evan reminds Harold of John

 

John set a freshly brewed cup of Sencha Green next to the monitor on Harold's right. His own cup of _mud_ he let clink noisily on the coaster in front of him as he took a seat at Harold’s left, the leather of the new office chair creaking as he did so.

Evan Ardent made his first grievous error working a mission with his new enigmatic employer. His coffee cup had left a ring on the polished sheen of the desk. Harold didn’t say a word, just furrowed his brow in annoyance and reached into a drawer. John after going into the kitchenette to make them fresh drinks didn't have to turn around to see that Harold had retrieved something to buff out the stain. When he returned to the desk there was a twin to the coaster Harold used on the spot where the stain had been. John flopped into the chair making it groan in complaint as if Evan was annoyed with the whole thing; in reality John was far from annoyed. He had to sit down like a pouty child before he succumbed to his want to the hug Finch for being so very _Harold_.

The two of them had been hunched over the desk staring at window after window displayed on the center monitor for the past three hours. The results were the same as earlier that morning; none of the people, even the ones Delgado had passed by on the street or in the dog park only nodding in hello or good day, had a reason to wish harm against the retired academy instructor. Those who knew Manuel well were like Evan Ardent — they would stand in harm’s way rather than be a danger to their friend.

All but a handful of the attendees of the support group had at one time or another stood at the podium thanking the group's founder for helping them get their lives back; those that hadn't were still making an effort to escape their own personal hell as well as grasping at the hand helping them out, not attempting to pull their savior in with them.

Harold sat up straight in his chair, muttered an almost inaudibly mild oath under his breath, and closed out the open windows on the monitor with annoyed taps on the mouse button. John pinched the bridge of his nose while looking down as if he were fighting a headache from the eye strain of staring at computers half their waking hours already that day, but in reality he was hiding his smile at what was essentially a Harold Finch temper tantrum.

John’s conscious or the part of it still belonging to Evan made a woefully brief attempt at making John feel guilty because of the gravity of the situation with Manuel, but it was merely a figurative finger tap to the shoulder compared to the the bear hug of happiness that this morning had turned into and it wasn’t even noon yet.

John did manage to bottle up all of his euphoria to get serious — he did have a job to do — when Harold looked to him and said, “It would appear that the person wishing to harm Mr. Delgado has yet to make any form of contact with our number or we would have discovered something by now. Either you or I will have to keep eyes on the number at all times.”

Harold pushed himself up out of his chair and limped heavily over to the glass board, standing in front of it with his arms folded. “There is someone out there who’s intentions are to harm this man, Mr. Ardent. That he or she hasn’t attempted by now, we can be sure of. Earnest would have intervened had they done so.”

John stood and the chair barely made a wisp of sound as he did so. The soles of his size thirteen dress shoes were as quiet as stocking feet on carpet as he made his way across the hardwood floor to stand next to Finch. Harold caught himself before he said, _‘John’._  

Mr. Reese had been the only person who Harold could sense approaching while never seeing or hearing him. Yet he felt Ardent’s presence in that same manner. Harold tapped the photo taped to the glass, “Mr. Ardent, it is our responsibility to insure this man’s safety before it comes to that.”

“What do you need me to do Finch?” John heard it the moment he said it and expected another glare.

Harold would have berated anyone else and loudly the second time at being addressed with such familiarity. That was something to be earned, like Tao calling him _Finchy_ as much as that grated on his nerves. Or as in John’s case being allowed to call him Finch almost from their first day together on the job because of the man John Reese was even before the two of them had met in person. Evan Ardent was in this room now because of who he was so what harm was there in not having Evan call him _Mr_. Finch? So Harold just nodded with a hint of a smile and moved past the taller man.

John couldn’t help but exhale in relief at the non verbal permission Harold gave Ardent to address his new boss as merely _Finch_. John didn’t know how he was ever going to keep calling Harold, ‘Mr. Finch’ even though he had asked Harold how he wanted to be addressed last night at the safe house. Good intentions mattered little when in a previous life the person you were supposed to have just met you knew more intimately than yourself.

Harold walked back over to his desk and opened a drawer to take out a house key taped to a slip of paper with an alarm code written on it. He dropped them inside a metal clipboard box filled with work orders — _Sunrise Cable TV_ was printed on the paperwork. He motioned John over to hand him the case and an ID badge with Evan’s photo above the fake name — Evan Morrison. Leave it to Finch to find an alias Evan would respond to without forethought. Ardent had used that name for two years on his first undercover assignment for the NSA.

“Earnest has found something that we have yet to uncover. Because we have found no clue as to who or what the threat may be digitally doesn’t mean there are none to be found. Not every detail of every one’s life can be found on _The_ _Cloud_.” The look on Harold’s face was a mixture of frustration —  that if the case were true their job would be a whole lot easier at the moment — and relief. Despite creating the most invasive surveillance computer in the world, Harold Finch obviously still cherished privacy.

John understood that to still be true when Harold frowned as if he was about to ask Ardent to desecrate hallowed ground, “We have to go old school, Mr. Ardent. As much as I detest taking invasion of privacy to such a personal level, necessity dictates we must really get our hands dirty. You need to get inside Mr. Delgado’s apartment and leave no stone unturned as they say.”

John allowed himself to smile and chuckle in response, “Got it!” when Harold quipped seriously even though his eyes betrayed him with jest, “Just remember to put the rocks back where you found them!”

 _As if a trained spy would ransack the place like some hired goon._ Still John appreciated Finch’s attempt to ease some of the tension. Being strung as tight as guitar wire wouldn’t do either of them any good.

Harold then informed Ardent there were a work shirt and pants hanging on the door of the restroom for him to change into explaining _Sunrise_ was experiencing multiple service interruptions in the area and no one would think it unusual to see a repairman on a service call. “The keys to the van are in the front pocket. I need to get going myself. I will be meeting up with Mr. Delgado unexpectedly at the dog park. Perhaps while I am unobtrusively detaining him to allow you time to search his apartment thoroughly I can glean some useful information. Just keep your comm open so you know when you need to get out in time.”

Harold removed his suit jacket and tie, hanging them on the wooden valet behind his desk before slipping on a brown suede sports jacket as he spoke, “We will meet back here, say around two pm, for lunch and new employee orientation. _The Library_ not only has a new bouncer but a bartender and a waitress as well. I, as owner and Mr. Tao as manager both attend. We want our new employees to feel welcomed by the both of us.”

“I really do need to get going,” Harold fretted glancing at his watch and hobbling across the carpet runner leading to the exit. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Just please, go easy on Mr. Tao.” With that Finch was on his way through the doorway and down the stairs before John thought to ask, ‘What van?’

Harold was gone when John made it down to club level. Tao was behind the bar talking to another man there with him; John heard Leon call him Matt while pointing out the liquors on the glass shelves. When Matt turned his head to look John’s way, Leon did the same. Tao stared Ardent down frostily before jerking his hand thumb out towards the kitchen entrance and snipped, “Harold said he forgot to tell you the van is in employee parking.”

Marr nodded a silent hello and smiled weakly as John passed by the bar on his way out. Tao wasn’t too subtle making it a point to snub Ardent as Leon turned his back and pissily returned to showing Matt where everything was. _Must be the new guy. I need to be easy on Leon? I hope Leon takes it easy on Matt!_

So it was a bit of a surprise when Tao stopped John in the employee lounge. “Hey, look dude. I’m pretty sure you’re an okay guy, Finchy taking you into the _Batcave_ and all. It’s just that the last guy allowed that was my friend and it’s just gonna take me some time to get used to you being here instead of the him,” Leon huffed in apology.

Any animosity John still felt towards Leon Tao vanished when he added, “John Reese was one hellofa guy. You've got some big shoes to fill Ardent.”

John’s question to ‘Why Leon?’ was partially answered when the smaller man puffed himself out and warned Evan, “If you screw up though and get Harold hurt, you’ll answer to me. Got it!?!”

Leon looked him up and down again before snapping, “We better get to work or Finchy will have both our asses.” Tao abruptly turned and headed back into the club. John smiled knowing Leon Tao had had Harold’s back all this time in his stead. John had no reason to doubt Leon was serious about carrying out his threat despite his small stature. _Don't worry Leon; I have no intention of screwing up ever again._

_~*~_

John found the van parked three spaces down from Harold’s reserved one. How had he not noticed it before? When he unlocked the door and climbed into the passenger seat John took the time to glance behind him before starting up the engine. The windows were tinted gray so no one passing by could really see inside. This was a new surveillance van, yet, John was bombarded with the memories of the first time he and Harold sat so close together in another. He could smell Finch’s aftershave and felt the warmth once more as their thighs touched. They had yet to admit their feelings for one another and Evan’s stomach did a flip flop like John’s had back then when Harold moved in closer not away as they watched Henry Peck.

John groaned as he felt another part of Evan’s anatomy twitch in response. His working with Harold became a whole lot more trickier. It was already difficult enough as it was resisting temptation to touch the person John loved but if Evan was attracted to male partners, John was going to need a lot of cold showers.

_“I am walking into the dog park now with eyes on the Number. Mr. Delgado is sitting on a bench near the entrance; Max is romping playfully with a border collie in the play-exercise area. How are things on your end Mr. Ardent?”_

Harold's voice loud in his ear, especially with the van’s noise blocking insulation deadening what little sound could be heard in the nearly deserted parking structure, was almost deafening — startling John out of his reverie to start the engine and be on his way.

“On my way now Finch. Had a slight delay here talking with Tao. Things are cool between us, as long as I don’t fuck up.”

 _“Language...please...Mr. Ardent, but thank you.”_ John snorted at Finch's admonishment _._ How many times had Harold’s vocabulary been limited to only words of profanity in the bedroom?

_“I know Mr. Tao has a tendency rub people the wrong way. It is something I have had to overlook many times in exchange for having his invaluable assistance with the Mission. And speaking of our Mission I am on my way to unexpectedly run into Mr. Delgado. If all goes as planned you should have plenty of time to do what you need to do. Good luck.”_

John eased the van cautiously out into the late morning traffic which was thankfully light considering it was lunchtime, but then again it was a very nice day — perhaps walking to nearby eateries was more tempting than driving anywhere. Whatever the reason, he was thankful. Driving again after a year of taking the bus or subway was reason enough to be cautious. Added to that, John literally wasn’t himself anymore and Ardent had been a lousy driver plus he’d became rusty riding shotgun seventyfive percent of the time when he was still John Reese-primary asset; well, it was in the mission’s best interest to be _better safe than sorry._

Thankfully he was the John Reese-CIA operative of old when it came to driving; not Harold Finch of this morning quality but damn near as good. It really had come back to him like riding a bike and he was parking outside Delgado’s apartment in practically no time at all.

John was able to get inside Manuel’s apartment without incident except for when a boy of five or six called out from his yard across the street where John had parked the van. He wanted to know if John was there to fix their TV, he was missing his _shows,_ and ran back into his house crying when John had said no. John was sure he saw a female hand flipping him the bird through the curtains of the kid’s house as he opened the passenger door to grab the clipboard case.

Twenty minutes of searching resulted in exactly squat until John found a cardboard _USPS_ envelope addressed to Delgado, postmarked the week before, in a locked desk drawer. Inside the envelope were a 5x7 photo ready for framing of a uni in dress blue — a medal dangling from the ribbon draped around his neck and an article clipped from a DC newspaper. No exact details were given, but the police officer, Roberto Aguilar, was one of the S.W.A.T. team sharpshooters given medals for saving the lives of ten hostages in a failed bank robbery. Also stuck into the folds of the article was a handwritten note, ‘Lunch at _The_ _Pines_. Tuesday, one pm. Mom says to make sure you join us. She still believes she hasn’t thanked you enough for saving me from myself. Robert’

Underneath Aguilar’s handwriting were a date and two times scratched in pencil by someone else, obviously Manual, and a reminder to find someone to take Max to the dog park that morning — the next morning according to Manuel’s scribblings.

Aguilar was one of Delgado’s former students that he and Finch had ruled out already as a threat to Delgado. Aguilar had spent six years in the service after graduating the academy and the past fifteen as a Washington, D.C. police officer of distinguished service. The only detail they hadn’t known was that Roberto was coming to New York City to visit his mother who was now residing at a rest home, _Shady_ _Pines_ , in New Rochelle. Aguilar was planning to stop by first to visit his academy instructor and then take Delgado to see the mother.

John took pictures of the photo and the article, as well as the note, for Harold to look over. Manuel had talked to Evan at one time about some of his other success story sharpshooter trainees including Roberto Aguilar; this bit of history John had supplied when he and Harold were researching Delgado’s acquaintances.

There had been some bad blood between Delgado and Victor Gutierrez, the leader of The Vipers, Aguilar’s former gang, when Aguilar left the Vipers for good because of Delgado’s influence. Victor was dead now; the gang's other members were either dead, in prison, or had been smart enough to follow Aguilar’s lead and get out before they ended up the same way.

The odds were that Delgado and Aguilar seeing each other face to face for the first time in ten years had absolutely nothing to do with the threat to Delgado, but the timing was just a little to coincidental to ignore.

While John had been going through the apartment he had been listening to Finch and Delgado talking to each other listening for his cue to vacate the premises. Most of the conversation had been about mundane things that John paid scant attention to, but he paused in his search of the remaining desk drawers to listen closely when Manuel asked Mr. Corbin if he had ever found the people Corbin had sold his dog Bear to when he had been desperate for a fix. “You mentioned you used to bring him here when we met earlier as to why you are here in a dog park **without** a dog. You seemed wistful is why I asked.”

Harold was quiet long enough for Manuel to apologize for asking. After another minute of awkward silence Harold answered the question. John heard true sorrow, regret, and sadness in the words even though they were part of the lie for the cover story. “No need to be sorry, Mr. Delgado. I did find Bear. I even went so far as threaten legal action to recover him. I just couldn’t uproot him; Bear may have be acquired under dubious circumstance, but the woman who has the Malinois now adores him and he her. Bear was nothing but loyal to me, yet I abandoned him without a moment’s hesitation for a bottle of who knows what. How do you admit your wrongs and make amends to an animal that you treated horribly?” Harold coughed to clear his throat, “Besides,” Harold added brokenly, “I doubt Bear even remembers me now, it’s been years since I spent any time with him bonding like we did in the beginning.”

There was silence on the comm until there was the sound of a dog barking and whining intermixed with a man laughing as he tried to talk at the same time, “You would be surprised what they remember, forget, and forgive.” Delgado thanked someone for bringing his dog to him. A kid panted, “No problem!” and then there was the trampling feet of several kids running away from where the two men were sitting.

By the sounds John heard after, he could tell Manuel had calmed his dog down. There was a doggie grunt and yawn, the licking of slobbery lips, the flop of a body hitting the ground followed by a yowling yawn and panting. Both Harold and Manuel chuckled at the dog’s antics. Delgado’s words were said with a laugh and then grew serious, “Max here loves me, but he hasn’t forgotten his handler in the military. When Sergeant Cooper is on leave, once a year he comes to see Max. It’s like the two never were separated.”

Manuel must have turned to face Harold directly as the chatter through the comm cleared and became crisper. “Max's retirement wasn’t because of his age; he and his handler were injured in an explosion. Cooper returned to duty after recuperating — was assigned a new K-9 and Max was shipped back to the States, deemed unfit for duty, with neither of them seeing each other again until Cooper’s first time back in the states a year later. If it hadn’t been for my being friends with the veterinarian caring for the Shepherd and his verifying that I was a suitable candidate for adopting a trained war dog, Max may very well have been put to sleep. The military sometimes forgets they are soldiers too and treat the canines like they are just disposable tools of warfare.”

Harold mumbled under his breath, “And some loyal-dedicated men, Mr. Delgado, those soldiers too.” Manuel must have heard and assumed Corbin was referring to his new charge. John did too; surely Harold wasn’t referring to the way the CIA used John Reese. “Yes, what they did to Evan was unfathomable. Only I was referring to poor Max’s treatment. It was a horrible way to be used. Max was hurt terribly; his handler, the person he bonded with to serve and protect, was gone without a word. Yet, Max has forgiven Cooper and still loves him. I am sure Bear misses you too, no matter what. I think it may do you good to at least see him. The recovery process of making amends shouldn’t be limited to just human beings.”

John finished his search as the two men in the park went back to mundane discussions of the best places to eat in the area or the weather. He took one quick glance around and peeked outside to make sure the hallway was clear then hurried to the van when Harold said a little too loudly, “I’ll give some thought to what you said. Evan and I will see you later at the meeting.” Under his breath Harold hissed, “Time to get out of there Mr. Ardent.”

 _~*_ ~

Harold was out of the sedan leaning against the driver’s door when Ardent drove the Ford Transit into the parking garage. He stood up and motioned with his hand, signaling his employee to pull the vehicle into the empty space next to _Harold_ _Scricciolo’s_ /his reserved one.

Before Ardent had turned off the engine Harold pulled the magnetic sign off the left side of the van. Ardent had gotten out of the Ford, saw what Harold was doing, and rushed around to the other side past him to remove the matching logo. Harold opened the rear doors by using the number pad and stowed the sign he held in a compartment behind the bank of surveillance equipment on the right. Ardent stood beside him, followed Harold’s lead, and slid the one he had removed in next to its twin.

John rifled through the other duos of magnetic business logos, more than pleased that Finch had remembered the suggestion he had made about using the removable signs as unmarked vans sitting for hours drew more attention than one with business names, phone numbers, and advertisements plastered on their sides. The van filled with surveillance equipment that the two of them had used many times before Samaritan had forced them to abandon it along with everything else was apparently long gone, but the new Ford and its accoutrements would be the envy of his old CIA cronies or those of Evan’s NSA days — the ones still living that is.

“Pretty clever way to not draw attention to a van filled with technology my old friends at the NSA won’t have access to in maybe….forever.” John commended Harold on what obviously were inventions of his own ingenious making the words come out as if Evan was both awed and extremely impressed.

Harold seemed to stand a little taller and his chest puffed out with pride before he shook his head — his ego deflating —  as he admitted sadly, “I might be the genius with deep pockets able to design and fund what I know this Mission needs to operate successfully, but if it weren’t for my partner, John Reese, I would still be the bumbling idiot who really had no clue what needed to be done  — losing more numbers than I ever saved and more than likely would have been killed myself because of it.”

Harold motioned Ardent to stand back so he could close the van’s rear doors. He ran his hand over the sleek lines of its exterior before turning to look at the Library’s entrance as if he could view everything inside. He sighed pensively to himself as he started to limp towards the door, “I wish John could see all this now.”

Maybe Harold didn’t think he spoke loud enough for Evan to hear, except John did and was about to blurt out the truth. “Finch! Wait up!” When Harold turned to look up at Evan expectantly John announced, “There’s something you should know!”

Before John could continue speaking, they both turned their heads as a battered Mustang convertible pulled into the garage, its radio blasting away a current top ten on the music charts. The driver switched off the engine, opened the door, futilely tried to pull her skirt down as she got out, and walked towards them. Her heels clicked on the pavement louder and louder as she moved closer to them and the echoing of the base from her music in the empty garage finally died down. When the blonde asked with her heavy Brooklyn accent. “Do either of you guys know if that’s the door I need to use. Starting work tonight and I gotta attend some new employee orientation first.”

Finch, ever the gentleman bowed his head slightly and said, “Yes. Ms. Andrews, I presume? I am Harold Scricciolo _, The Library’s_ owner, and this is Evan Ar..Morrison, your new co-worker.” Harold corrected himself quickly when he had looked over to introduce the man standing next to him to the young woman and saw that Ardent was still wearing his ID badge for the cable company.

John had seen that _you need to be more careful_ grimace on Finch's face enough times to recognize it for what it was during the split-second he gave that look to Ardent and coughed behind his hand, “Sorry.” Harold eyed him as if what Evan had done puzzled him in some way for a moment longer and then motioned the woman to precede them through the doorway.

Harold couldn’t help himself giving Ardent _the_ _stare_ , he had done it to John so many times it had become almost second nature to him. He didn’t have time to dissect it though when Evan Ardent had done something so Reese-like once again. Instead, as Ms. Williams went inside he asked quickly, “You wanted to tell me something Mr. Ardent?”

John had made up his mind; he would tell Harold everything, when the time was right. He decided now wasn’t it; the number came first. Besides those taunts haunting him that he was someone Harold Finch thought easily replaceable dissolved into nothing at all when he had heard Harold giving credit to him, John Reese, for everything the Mission was now. “It can keep Finch. We can discuss what I found out this morning when we get upstairs.”

~*~

Orientation was an informal affair with everyone sitting at two tables near the bar and offered the refreshments of their choice. The first few minutes were taken up with signing the usual government required documents before either Harold or Leon began welcoming each new hire and went over what was expected of _The_ _Library's_ new employees. More forms pertaining to company policy and the topic either employer were addressing at the time were signed.

How new paperwork with Evan Morrison’s name on the file had appeared in the stack Leon brought down from the office without Harold having said a word to the club’s manager John suspected was Earnest’s doing. His suspicions were confirmed when Tao handed him the folder with the new name, John had raised an eye in question while looking at Harold, and Finch gave a quick tilt of his head towards the storeroom door.

When Harold and Leon were done addressing the small group the three were given uniforms in the sizes that were requested at their hirings. John was given the black tee shirt, belt, and slacks worn by the other bouncers. Being that Evan really hadn’t been hired per se and as he had earlier that morning with the well fitting work clothes of a cable TV repairman, John assumed the perfect sizes to fit came from Finch and Earnest’s profile he wittily labeled _Everything We Need to Know About Evan Ardent._ It humored him pointlessly to think there was an answer to the question — boxers or briefs — and it would be wrong.

Right before orientation ended and they broke for lunch, the three new hires were joined by the experienced club employees who would be training them for the next two weeks. John was momentarily taken aback when Evan was introduced to his trainer.

When Evan had been given the grand tour of _The Library,_ Harold had credited the covert construction of the secrets inside and down below to former numbers offering sworn discretion in repayment for having been given back their lives. Apparently there were some who extended their gratitude by becoming actual employees.

John shook hands with Scott Powell, the number set up as the attempted assassin to a congressman, used as a patsy because of his desperation to find work. His wife Leslie was the waitress responsible for Ms. Andrews. The bartender paired with Matt had once worked at the Coronet and soon after Harold had purchased the hotel, the young man had become a Number.

It was no surprise when Scott pulled him to the side and out of the other’s earshot spoke low regardless, “Leon told me who you really are, but I’ll be working with you when a situation requires that you actually need to be here. And don’t worry we know what to do to cover for you when you aren't”.

Apparently that extended to covering for him when he and Harold slipped away to have their lunch together upstairs in the office. Even though John could sense curious eyes watching them as they climbed the stairs, the two newcomers were being herded away by their trainers to other parts of the club and Powell was waiting for Leon to open the door to the wine cellar when John turned to look down while waiting on Harold to let them in.

 _~*_ ~

Finch printed out copies of the Aguilar’s photo and the note and taped them to the glass board. “I agree with your assessment, Mr. Ardent, that the timing of Roberto Aguilar’s arrival in New York City and Delgado becoming a number is merely coincidental.”

Harold folded his arms as he had earlier before staring at the board for a few moments, “Yet again, it could be anything but. I still don’t believe Aguilar is the threat, only now I think it wise to keep tabs on both gentleman. It would not be the first time we have had to keep someone besides the Number safe from harm. These two men could possibly both be in danger from the same threat. ”

John nodded his agreement when Harold informed him that they would attend the addicts anonymous meeting later that evening after the two of them returned to the safehouse. They needed to walk to the church keeping up the pretense that Corbin avoided vehicular transportation of any kind.

Finch slipped out of the sports jacket and back into his suit coat; he lifted his tie from where it hung on the butler and draped it around his neck. Harold excused himself as he passed in front of Ardent so he could stand in front of his desk.

John caught a whiff of _Harold,_ let his eyes flutter closed _,_ and he breathed in deep. They had been this close together several times throughout the day and he had kept himself in check, but Harold still smelled so damn good, even this late in the afternoon. When John opened his eyes to see Harold’s backside, his still plump derriere protruding invitingly, John swallowed hard and quickly looked away. _I should have known this would happen. I will always want that man. Keep it together, John! When we solve this case I  can tell him the truth and hope like hell he believes me._

Harold stooped slightly to adjust his tie using one of the now darkened monitors as a mirror and glanced every so often at Ardent’s reflection to propose their next course of action, “If nothing out of the ordinary happens at the meeting, you will follow Mr. Delgado home; without him seeing you of course. I will wait for you at Harold Corbin's apartment; once our Number is ‘in’ for the night, you will meet me there.”  

Satisfied that his attire appeared to be impeccable Harold turned to look at his associate. Noting Ardent hadn’t taken the opportunity to change back into dress clothes he suggested, “Why don’t you take some time to get changed yourself? Delgado should be safe once he’s inside his apartment, so I think it wise we return here after we rendezvous at mine. I can delve into the new development of Aguilar’s arrival some more while you put in a few hours training with Mr. Powell to lend credence to your cover. I need to touch base with Mr. Tao about our plans. Why don’t you meet me downstairs in the employee lounge when you are ready.”

Harold paused at the door to add, “We won’t be here long enough that once we get back to the safehouse we can’t get a few hours rest.”

John took his time getting changed in order to get his libido in check. He almost wished something would happen at the meeting; mixing it up with a perpetrator was preferable to trying to get any sleep with Harold in the next room.

To think it was only a little over twenty-four hours ago John had drank himself into a stupor because he believed he would never find Harold Finch. Then miraculously he had when Evan Ardent’s best friend became a Number. Maybe John had believed incorrectly that Finch’s only true concern was the Mission, not his comrades at arms, even the partner Harold claimed to love; especially after he saw a different Finch up on that podium and watched as Harold determinedly convinced Evan to join him in the mission. Yet this day had proven his assumption incredibly wrong and now John was so deliriously happy despite being tasked with saving a good man's life while needing to keep his need for Harold underwraps until he did so.      

~~*~~   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, no pun intended, the reveal will happen and soon.  
> This chapter just kept going and going  
> Final chapter soon. I promise and it will be worth the wait.


	9. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John/Evan work their first number together  
> Events lead to John revealing he is alive.  
> Harold is a bad ass?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is at last.  
> John finally tells Harold he's alive.  
> I'm John!
> 
> I wished I could have finished this sooner before everyone forgot I had a continuing story going.  
> I flew through the first half writing it, then for reasons only a therapist could discern, I couldn't  
> write another word, I just couldn't.

 

John eased back into the seat after closing the passenger side door. Finch had already settled himself behind the steering wheel, seat belt in place across his torso with the engine of the Town Car already idling. He waited patiently for his new associate to buckle himself in before backing the car out of its space.

The day so far had been pleasant so Finch had kept the climate control set to circulate; now that the afternoon temperature was rising to its predicted high he reached over to tap the digital control to cool the interior to 78 degrees. Harold then told his passenger that he could adjust the dual controls to whatever temperature he wished before putting the car in drive, accelerating, and steering it towards the exit.

John had driven with the windows down when he was still Reese; he really hadn’t let himself get used to the comfort of air-conditioning after decades of his body acclimating to harsh conditions, even during stakeouts sitting for hours in a vehicle’s oven-like interior. It was only while Finch was driving or on the rare occasion that he rode as John’s passenger that the windows were rolled up and the air on.

Since John had started this after-life in Evan Ardent’s body, he’d seldom been in a car — let alone driven one — before today. John really had no idea what temperature his borrowed physic would prefer his side of the car be set to. Only Evan had had the same rigorous training as he so John just sat further back in the seat saying, “I’m fine.

Finch darted a glance at his passenger. _Of course you are. John was the same way._ Harold stiffened his shoulders and shook his head minutely. _Where is all this coming from? Am I still missing John so much that I am projecting Mr. Ardent’s actions into those of the man I loved?_

Harold clenched the steering with his hands while berating himself for the possibility of him even confusing the two men. John was gone and Harold’s heart still clenched painfully at the remembrance. Evan Ardent —  as similar to John Reese as he was — was not John and never would be. Harold vowed to himself that he would keep some distance from Ardent emotionally; it wouldn't be fair to either of them to develop some kind of closeness so he could ease the pain of losing his John simply because his mind was playing tricks on him.

Harold had contemplated outfitting Evan Ardent with whatever he needed in lieu of letting Ardent move some personal items from his apartment to the safehouse until the threat to the Number was neutralized. Only Harold had outfitted John with everything from underclothes to suits; Mr. Reese had treasured every gift as much as it had overjoyed Finch to give them — a precursor perhaps to their growing feelings for each other turning into love. So when Harold reached the crossroad he needed to turn right to drive towards the safehouse he turned left.

When Finch noticed out of the corner of his eye Evan sitting forward as the car turned in the opposite direction of the safehouse, Harold hastened to explain the change of plans, “We have been so focused today on the frustrating task of finding anything to lead us to the whomever wants to do our number harm, I had completely forgotten that you needed to retrieve personal items from your apartment. I suggest Mr. Ardent that you pack whatever you may need for an undetermined amount of time to bring to Mr. Corbin’s apartment.”

John nodded that he had also forgotten and confessed the same, “Yeah, that slipped my mind too.” He really hadn’t; John just never thought about returning to Ardent’s apartment for any of his meager belongings. He had just assumed Finch would supply anything his new employee might need. Now John felt a very odd mix of relief, joy, and disappointment. Relief that Finch apparently only supplied disguises for his new associate to wear not personal attire, joy that he — John Reese — had been so special that Harold had given him everything he could possible need or want from the day John had agreed to stay on, and an unexplained disappointment that Finch was treating Evan as an associate and a formal one at that — despite there being something a little more than just a business arrangement between them since their first face-to-face in Delgado’s apartment. Maybe he was hoping Harold sensed somehow who Evan really was.

Twenty minutes after leaving _The Library_ John was in Evan’s shabby apartment throwing a few things in an old Army green drawstring duffle with more holes than duffle it seemed.

All John had left of Ardent’s pitiful possessions that remained in the closet including those from Evan’s employed by the NSA/Samaritan days — the black outfits John had trashcanned months ago —  consisted of three comfort worn(out) pairs of blue jeans, four threadbare screen printed t-shirts, every one dotted with small holes, and a white dress shirt, yellowed from years of hanging unworn and unwashed.

Two dark gray dress slacks, one dark blue polo with pocket, and one charcoal with thin white stripes along with some colored tee shirts — every item included in a ten dollar grab bag John had purchased from a thrift store soon after assuming Ardent’s  life — made up the rest of the closet’s contents.

Even though he was living in another man's body he still felt uncomfortable wearing Evan’s underwear so John had purchased a week’s worth of ribbed white tank undershirts and colored boxers — three days of those in the hamper. John grabbed those first, stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag, and then into the duffle. The clean clothing from the closet he’d bought for himself went next followed by a shaving kit filled with the few grooming aides John had replaced of Evan’s.

It was kind of embarrassing to realize it was his fault he’d allowed his new life as Evan Ardent to sink so low but re-avowed he would do better. Finch was depending on Evan now to save the numbers plus John still believed Harold’s life depended on him too. As he walked towards the sedan John caught sympathy on Harold’s face briefly before Harold masked it and opened the trunk from the inside the car.

The fifteen minute drive between Ardent’s apartment and the safehouse was made in silence as was the walk into the building and elevator ride up to the apartment. Finch quickly excused himself by saying he needed to rest an hour or so and then fled into his bedroom.

Harold leaned against the bedroom door closing his eyes in thought. He had for a moment reconsidered his decision to outfit his new employee when he saw the tattered bag Ardent was carrying. No doubt the bag’s contents weren’t in much better shape. But no, he couldn't do that; he would give Ardent his salary early with a tiny bonus and let the man decide for himself to upgrade his apparel or not.

Harold shook himself mentally; he had to bottle up these crazy thoughts about his new associate until the situation with the current Number was resolved and even longer. The barely audible grunt that escaped his chest as he bent over to untie his shoes was more in exasperation of the situation than the physical discomfort of removing his shoes which he picked up and carried to his closet. Harold sniffed and sighed as he slid the shoes in their place on his shoe rack. He then removed his suit jacket, slacks, and vest to hang on their hangers. In front of his bureau mirror Harold undid his tie, slid it from around his neck and slipped it over the empty branch of a tie tree that occupied a corner of the dresser; he followed the tie removal with the taking off of his dress shirt and socks which he tossed in the hamper. Harold limped heavily over to his bed and lay down.

He closed his eyes, but his mind was too active for him to really rest. They would save Delgado first and foremost Harold decided and then he would find a way to permanently deal with his unusual reactions to Evan Ardent.

~ * ~

John stood at the door while watching Harold escape to his room. He couldn't help feeling that somewhere in between departing their base of operations in _The Library_ and leaving the building’s parking garage, Harold had chosen to distance himself from Evan Ardent. John shook his head negatively a few times then hoisted his bag of possessions over his shoulder to carry them into the guest bedroom.

It took all of five minutes to put his belongings away and carry his grooming kit into the guest bathroom. Thoughts of Harold lying alone on his bed across the hall crept into John’s mind as he stepped into the shower. He quickly twisted the hot water knob off. Showering under the frigid water was preferable to succumbing to the temptation of stroking himself instead. Stepping out of the shower a few minutes later he wrapped a towel around his midriff and shaved while letting the temperature of the room warm his chilled skin.

Looking at the clock as he went back out into the bedroom John decided to stretch out on his own bed; there was still almost two hours to go before the meeting at the church. Hands linked behind his head John looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t try to sleep yet he let Ardent’s body relax. It needed to be at its best to stop the threat against Delgado and Harold.  

~*~

The meeting room was full when the two of them arrived at the church. Yet Harold managed to find them two empty chairs set up in a spot he could move his seat a good foot away from John’s. John was sure now Harold was intentionally distancing himself from Ardent; as they walked from the apartment earlier Harold had kept as much space between them as he possibly could — a complete one-eighty from the previous night’s closeness.

This evening's session was about to begin, so John put what was happening with Finch to the back of his mind. Delgado welcomed the regulars before congratulating the two newcomers attending the support group for the first time. Along with lauding them for deciding to reach out for help from his group, Delgado offered his assistance and added, “Although the sober companions associated with this support group are paired with other individuals, I assure every one of you that they too are just a phone call away.”

Manual turned the podium over to any of the group who wished to speak and of course Harold Corbin was the first to stand up. “As most of you know, my name is Harold and I am an addict,” Harold began after adjusting his tie clasp. There was the smatterings of, “Hello Harold,” from different members of the group before Harold continued with his story.

Finch told it the same as he had the night previous, but also added that Manuel Delgado had accepted his offer to be sober companion to any member of the group whom Delgado decided would benefit from his help the most.

Harold adjusted his tie once more, which had John wondering why he was feigning nervousness. That is until Finch made eye contact with him momentarily, nodding and glancing imperceptibly at each of the newcomers in quick succession, before continuing on with his group share, “We were only introduced last night, ….” Of course; it would be hard to take photos, even stealthily with a camera phone, in a group this size and packed in close in the small meeting room. _Clever Harold! You are using a camera hidden in your tie clasp._

Finch’s gentle caring voice eased its way into Reese’s thoughts, “... I know it has only been twenty-four hours since Mr. Ardent and I began our journey together. Only every journey begins with the first step and we have taken it. We are urged to overcome our addictions one day at a time so Evan and I shall strive to surmount them, together.”

John turned his head from side to side to look at the people seated close to him; what Harold had said was for their benefit, meant to lend believable credence to Ardent and Corbin's cover. Yet he knew somehow Harold’s avowal was not just about the addictions they would never totally be free from, no matter how long they remained sober; his words were about the mission too. The pronouncement also set John’s mind at ease. For whatever reason Harold was distancing himself from Evan Ardent, it had nothing to do with Evan’s importance in his life. Whatever the Mission threw at them, the two of them were in it together. John faced forward and waited until Finch looked directly at him again before nodding with a smirk and an eye wink.

Harold solemnly gazed out at the faces looking back at him for a few moments. His words, although not the truth in fact, were true in meaning. as to encourage everyone in the group to stay strong, to take overcoming their addictions one day at a time, but not to do it alone. Harold had Grace and Earnest to help keep him sober and clean; now Evan would have him, Earnest and the Mission. When Finch saw Ardent’s acknowledgement that he understood this despite Harold’s strange behavior this afternoon, Harold breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the podium back over to Manuel and returned to his seat.

John leaned in close as Harold settled, “We’re good, Finch, okay? Now I think I need to say something myself. Give you a chance to adjust your tie clasp some more while everyone is looking at me.” He probably shouldn’t have done it, but as he got up John gripped Harold’s shoulder while moving past him. Harold tensed but immediately relaxed; John left his hand there for the few seconds it took for him to squeeze past the other man. It was heaven to absorb into his palm the warmth of Harold leaching through the suit he wore and to be able to touch for the briefest of time.

Only John had to let go to move out into the aisle and to the podium that Delgado turned over to his friend Evan. John cleared his throat, with difficulty he began, “Hello! My name is Evan and I am an addict.” Maybe it was because John knew that Harold was an addict too, could understand the demons that you had to fight, that gave John the strength now to admit something he never could before — not even when Harold had pulled him out of the gutter after Jessica had died.

As Harold looked up at Evan with eyes full of understanding, nodded and smiled in support for him to continue, John said as a weight lifted, “I gave everything I could my entire life to this country but when the government cut me loose completely without a reason why, I was left with nothing. No job, no training for civilian life, nothing. With one failure after another to find employment and keep the job I started drinking, and drinking, and drinking some more. Last night I came here after my latest binge.”

John began to falter then, the words that had came out easily slowed down as emotions welled up unbidden. “Manuel Delgado introduced me to a man who has in twenty-four short hours given me hope that I can turn my life around. I know it won’t be easy but we’ll take it one day at a time.” John looked directly at Harold then, “Thank you. I don’t think you will ever understand how much I mean that or how much I really needed you to come into my life.” John was speaking for Evan Ardent to Harold, but in his heart and mind he was speaking for John Reese.

As slow going as it was with several members congratulating, blessing, wishing him good luck, and/or putting Evan in their prayers, John eventually made back to his chair next to Finch. After they both gave each other a tight smile that quickly morphed into one of understanding, John sat down next to the other man. When everyone’s attention had left them and was on Manuel Delgado's closing words to end the evening’s meeting, Harold leaned in close and said barely above a whisper, “You get him, I’ll get the other.” John turned to look in the direction Harold was facing to see an older thirty-some Hispanic man who seemed to be staring at Manuel Delgado just a bit too hard.

When everyone got up to talk a bit to others there or just leave, Harold headed in the direction of the restrooms where newbie number two appeared to be going. A surge of adrenaline from fear momentarily had John wanting to follow — the sudden flash of a gun being trained on Finch from his dream caused the spike, but Harold and the figure were outside in daylight not a dimly lit basement mensroom — so John turned to go after his mark. Newbie number one was talking to Manuel with no trace of the _if looks could kill_ stare-down in his eyes from before as he shook hands with Delgado while saying he would try to make the next evening’s meeting if he was still in the area; he was job hunting and he might be in another part of the city. John wasn’t able to clone the man’s cell phone as he didn’t have one or had some museum piece made back in the stone age.  

When John saw Finch leave the church fifteen minutes later unharmed and scowling, John felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Only John grimaced when he heard that Harold had hit the same roadblock as he had except newbie number two actually had no cell phone as he bummed some change off Harold to use the payphone across the street to call his ride home. They waited on the corner watching number one and two get in their respective rides and the cars drive away. When Delgado left soon after with Max walking towards Manuel’s apartment they started walking in the direction of the safehouse.

When they were far enough away not to be heard by other group members still talking outside the church Harold said, “If it is agreeable with you, Mr. Ardent, I think we should just get the car and head on over to _The Library._ I will try to find out what I can while you put in a few hours at your cover job.” Finch pulled his phone out when it chimed, exhaled with relief, texted a few words, and informed Evan, “It seems Mr. Delgado has already made it home and is inside his apartment settling down for the night. I texted Mr. Tau that we are on our way.”

John expected Harold to pull his arm free but let Ardent hold on to his elbow for stability when they sped up their pace as Evan said, “Well let’s get going then.”

~*~

Six hours later Harold was resetting the alarm to the safehouse while John headed for the kitchen to start the water heating for Finch’s green tea — Sencha of course: that was as unchanged as the sun rising in the east — and oddly enough, as he’d hated the stuff as Reese, popped the top of two cans of _Orange_ _Crush_ soda and poured them into a large glass tumbler.

John had reclaimed more of himself the last few days then he had since waking up after surgery, but Ardent’s preferences for food and drink were so low on the _need to be Reese again_ scale of importance that they barely registered hence: the carbonated orange drink fondness.

The devotion John felt for Harold Finch though apparently was something else entirely. He didn't have to say to himself ‘This is me, John Reese.’ to have Evan’s body respond with it: as involuntary as the heart beat, it just did. There was no invisible line where Evan Ardent ended and John Reese began as they watched Harold almost needing to drag his leg to make it to the couch.

Harold limped heavily over to the couch favoring his bad hip noticeably even while trying to hide it and judging by the worried expression on Ardent’s face, he was failing terribly. Now was not the time to dwell on his response to seeing that look again; when they had saved Delgado he would examine this strange behavior of his. Only for now he just wanted to close his eyes a few minutes; Harold took off his glasses, set them on the coffee table, and leaned back pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes at the same time.

John set the cup of tea down on the table next to Finch’s glasses with a loud thunk that sloshed some of the liquid onto the glass top. Harold barely stirred, just a slight body twitch, a deep breath in and exhale with a snort before he started to softly snore again. John grinned at the sight of Harold sound asleep, not in amusement but in relief. He picked the cup back up, took it back into the kitchen, and returned with a cloth to wipe up the spill.

With the table top shiny clean once more John looked over to see Harold hadn’t moved a muscle. He watched in fascination as the hair above his lip fluttered with every exhale from the hawkish nose John adored. He hadn’t thought about it until now how good Harold looked with the mustache and beard. Unbidden John wondered what it would feel like brushing against his bare skin; he shook his shoulders while slamming that door shut forcefully and loudly in his head. “Enough of that Reese,” he muttered under his breath.

A little louder but still no more than a whisper he said, “Glad to see you're sleeping-really sleeping again Finch.” His hands trembled, _his hands not Evan’s,_ as he gently adjusted Finch’s legs and head so he was laying on his side on the sofa. John placed one of the couch pillows under Harold’s neck just so to support it and then pulled the throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over the still, soundly sleeping man. _I never thought I would again. Sweet dreams Harold._

~ * ~

Harold started, something from his dream. He opened his eyes to a fuzzy darkened room, a light still on in the kitchen barely kept the entire area from being in total darkness. He pulled the coverlet off as he sat up with one hand and put his shoe-less feet on the floor. With the other hand he reached for his glasses and put them on. He didn’t remember falling asleep, just leaning back and listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. _Mr. Ardent?_ Harold looked around; he was alone in the room.  

It was still early in the morning, four am according to the wall clock, time enough to grab a few more hours sleep. He needed to be fresh to tackle another round of, _Who is our perp?_ Harold got up from the couch and headed for his room. Once in bed he planned on hacking more into the lives of the two new faces at the meeting, one Arturo Medina and one Richard Kearney, the next morning. Maybe with rested eyes he would spot something once he returned to _The Library_ in the morning; one of those men had to be the threat.

John heard the shuffle of stocking feet moving past his closed door, a toilet flush, the faint rustle of bed clothes, the click of a bedside lamp, and silence. He had only been dozing lightly since leaving Finch snoring away on the sofa and getting into bed himself. He knew he still wouldn’t do much more now that he was awake again, so instead he stared up at the ceiling thinking about tailing Delgado and Aguilar to the retirement home. He agreed with Finch; one of the newbies from tonight had to be the threat. John just wished the sixth sense he had would tell him who it was not just set his nerves on edge. _At least Harold is resting_ _well_ _, I’m going to need him at his best tomorrow when shit hits the fan._

~*~

John sat behind the wheel of the ten year old plain as dirt and unnoticeable to the point of being invisible Ford sedan watching the front of Delgado’s apartment building while playing with the set of keys Finch had handed him earlier. “One of the perks of working this job,” Harold had fairly beamed as he surprised his new employee and handed him the keys to a 2016 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Hard Rock — cherry red with coal black fender flares. “It’s not for tailing a number,” Harold said and then had actually smirked, “You’re stuck with the Ford POS over there for that.” Harold then told Ardent it was for their off days, for him — Evan— to get out and have some fun, be free for a change. He deserved that much for all the government had done to him and for sparing Harold’s life.

While John had stood there in the club’s parking structure stunned with his mouth dropped open, Harold had taped his watch and snapped, “Time to get to work now. Be careful Mr. Ardent!” Harold had headed inside the club without looking back; John had picked his jaw up off the asphalt to hurry over to the Ford, to get in and be on his way to tail the number as ordered.

It was just so unexpected if it could be called that. Somewhere buried deep in Ardent’s memories was an unspoken wish to someday own one that it surprised John how Finch could have ever found out. What was even more unsettling was a conversation that Harold and he had had before the dark days of Samaritan where he’d thanked Harold for the Ducati on his birthday the year following the loft gift, but had hinted as a joke that for his next birthday Finch could buy him a cherry red Jeep and now here he had the keys to one in his hand. Something had freaked Harold into distancing himself from Evan so abruptly. Had Harold pulled away because he thought the immediate closeness was somehow a betrayal to John’s memory? Only that didn’t explain the joy on Harold’s face as he handed Evan the keys.

_Well hold those thoughts Reese. Showtime!_

~*~

Harold uttered a mild expletive when he ran into another dead end hacking into the background of Arturo Medina. The man supposedly had been in California for his entire life and according to birth records he was born in Los Angeles, but until twenty years ago there was nothing to be found that substantiated he actually grew up there — no school records, no medical either. There wasn't any evidence on file that he was involved in any after school activities, sports, or clubs. The parents died when Arturo was six months old and that’s when the gap of twenty years began. The infant wasn’t placed with relatives — there were none — nor in the system. Baby Arturo vanished only to reappear as an adult at age twenty-two and working at a garage in the same city where he was born. The only reason for suspecting Arturo as the threat to Delgado was the timing of his appearance in NYC to visit a friend who had relocated here and his appearance at the AA meeting. And that was it.

Richard Kearney was more suspect to be the threat. He also had recently come to New York City. His connection to Delgado was that Kearney spent time in an upstate penitentiary and was a cellmate of one of the Vipers until being released three months ago. It hardly seemed likely that the unemployed and broke man who had asked Harold for change for a phone call was actually the threat, but Harold couldn’t rule the man out entirely. Twenty odd years was a long time to seek revenge. Regardless, Kearney might be the threat just because of his association with the former gang member and might be the ex-Viper’s first chance of making good on his promise to make Delgado pay for Gutierrez’ death.

Harold tapped his earpiece; Ardent was letting him know Delgado had left his apartment to meet with Aguilar. “Be careful Mr. Ardent, I still have no clue who the threat might be,” Harold cautioned.

He cut the connection to his employee and opened one up to Earnest, “A little help here please?”

At once all his monitors lit up, a death certificate dated forty years ago for Arturo Medina came up on one and a magnified medical record for a tattoo removal and a photo of said tattoo as required by California law loaded on the second. The tattoo was a coiled snake — a viper — ready to strike.

Harold tried to contact Ardent to warn him, Arturo Medina was Victor Gutierrez, very much alive and returned to New York to kill both Aguilar and Delgado.

There was no answer! The monitor with the death certificate blackened for a split second before it lit up again with a surveillance feed outside Aguilar’s mother’s room. In the tiny backyard behind it, Evan Ardent was unconscious, bound to a tree by several loops severed from a garden hose, and bleeding from his scalp — the blood still oozing down his forehead and onto his face. Gutierrez was crouched under a window looking inside, lying in wait for his victims to return to the tiny apartment.

Harold unlocked the drawer he had kept one of John’s handguns — one that previously hung in the _Closet of Mass Destruction,_ but was now in his hand — pushed himself out of the chair, and limped out the door as fast as he could go. He shouted when he reached the main floor, “Leon! My computers! Now! Watch the feed and call the police when I get there! The door’s open!”

Finch was in the _Town Car_ and on his way to _The Pines_ and praying he could get there in time to save four people now. He wasn’t going to fail Evan as he had John.

~*~

John tailed the two men to the retirement home, parked a short distance away, and watched the duo enter the main building where the dining room was located. He didn’t think anyone was crazy enough to try something in a room full of witnesses but he kept hunkered down in his seat scanning the area for one of their two potential perps just in case.

John sat up though when a beat up pickup pulled into a spot a few cars in front and Arturo Medina got out. John crouched down as Arturo looked his way and then the opposite direction before he ran across the street. John was the only one watching the man as he jumped a wooden privacy fence.

After waiting a few minutes John got out of the car to follow. It was a really, really stupid move not alerting Finch before he did, but internally John argued in his defense: there was no time. He would just be extra vigilant tailing Medina; John hunched down as he crept along the fence line. There was no sign of Arturo when John cautiously raised up high enough to peer over the top. The last thing John thought was, ‘Real fucking stupid, Reese!’ when Medina jumped from behind the bush where he had been hiding and clocked John with a garden gnome as John opened the gate.

John came to blinded by the afternoon sun shining in his eyes, yet he could just make out the figure of someone holding a gun. He didn’t need to see who the figure was pointing the gun at, that didn’t matter: he already knew. John turned his head and shouted, “Harold.” Two shots rang out then and John clenched his eyes tight. _No. No. No. Please God no?_

When he opened them again Harold was still standing with a gun in his hand. His dream was wrong; Harold wasn’t frightened — he was shocked. Harold looked at the gun, at Arturo who was writhing on the ground a hand covering each of his bloodied knees, and back at the gun. Finch crooked his lips into a quick smile, shrugged his shoulders and humphed, “I did it.”

When a shocked Aguilar and Delgado burst out the back door of Mrs. Aguilar’s apartment, Harold had Ardent unbound and up on his feet. The two turned their eyes from away from Harold and Evan to look over at the wounded man groaning loudly or swearing in a combination of English and Spanish. Aguilar recognized him immediately and growled, “Gutierrez, you son of a bitch!”

At the sound of approaching sirens, Harold helped Ardent to the gate and quickly bade the two not to mention them. “We help people, and sometimes what we have to do isn’t legal. So please?”

Aguilar pulled a gun from his under his coat, pointed it briefly at the two vigilantes, then over at Gutierrez and held it on the assailant while kicking his weapon out of reach. “You're under arrest!” he barked and without looking their way told Harold, “Get your partner out of here, I never saw you two.” Uncaring if the presumed dead gang leader would dare to claim police brutality, Aguilar put a foot on the wounded man's knee and pressed down, “Right Victor?”

Harold wasted no time; he grabbed Ardent by the arm and rushed the two of them through the gate and towards the _Town Car_. “We'll get the Ford later,” Harold huffed as they hurried away.

John was sitting in the passenger seat this time as Harold gunned the car to get them away from trouble. “You risked your life to save me. Why?”

“Let's get you to the safehouse and check out your head wound. You may have a concussion,” was all Finch said.

~*~

Once in the elevator of the safehouse’s building, John let out the deep boom of laughter he had been holding in since Harold walked him past the desk clerk and literally pitched a bitch fit, “You really need to tell old lady Gunderson to scoop her dog’s poop. My friend slipped in a pile of shit and fell head first into that grotesque statue next to the stone block pathway.”

Harold gave Evan an odd look and worried, “We really need to check out that knock on your head. What I said wasn’t meant to be funny.”

Ten minutes later Harold had settled John on the couch and fussed over nothing repeatedly. There was a bump the size of half a walnut shell on his scalp right above the hairline, the whack on his skull barely broke the skin, and other than the dull thrum of pain it caused: John was fine. No dizziness, no blurred vision, and no other signs he was concussed.

When Harold made to stand up from the coffee table he was sitting on, John grabbed his arm and repeated what he said in the car, “You risked your life to save me. Why? When I was stupid you rushed in instead of sending the police. Why?”

Harold blinked a few times and then said, “Alright.” He moved over to the chair, rubbed his hands together and hedged at first, “I don’t know why _**exactly**_.”

Harold cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and admitted, “I am confused myself, but here goes.” Nervously he began, “I know we have only just started this endeavor together, but I knew you were the right man from the moment we met in Delgado’s office. I don’t understand why; maybe it’s that you remind me so much of John: like he is still here with me. I know this all sounds insane and I don’t want you to believe you are only here because of some wish on my part to make you his substitute. You are important too. Not because I need you. The numbers need you, too. I just couldn't stand back and do nothing again. I couldn’t lose you like I lost John!”

Harold fisted his hands and dropped them hard on the top of his legs, “Dammit. That's why I started keeping you at a distance; I started seeing too much of John in you. I didn't want to use you like that Mr. Ardent. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Finch sprang up out of the chair, walked over to the window and agonized, “Now you are going to think I am some crazy old fool who desperately wants to find his dead boyfriend in someone else. Hell, I even bought you the Jeep John asked me to get him for his next birthday. I wanted to believe the stunned look you gave me was because you were _at a loss for words_ happy like John would have been. But I came to my senses and ordered you to get back to work like an ass. I wouldn’t blame you if you bolted out of here and never came back.”

John walked up behind Harold and gently turned him around. “You’re not crazy. You are not using me. You say you’re being unfair asking me to work with you or to be your friend because I remind you of John. Well you’re not. You are doing what your heart wants you to do. It knows what I should have told you from the day we met. I **am** John and I am not going anywhere, not ever again.”

~~*~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically it. If you have a thing against Harold having sex with someone who doesn't look  
> like John, you can stop here.
> 
> I won't promise the epilogue will be up soon, although I'll try my best to make it so.  
> I want it to be the most satisfying ending it can be.
> 
> Spoiler: A member of the family returns.
> 
> A/N I don't think having to take a picture before removing a tattoo is California law.  
> And I am not a nurse lol so I probably am wrong on the signs of a concussion.


	10. Epilogue: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tells the unbelievable, how he became Evan Ardent.  
> Harold is shocked at first, but eventually comes to believe this miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not all sunshine and roses for the two when they try to rekindle their passion.  
> It all works out when John figures out what he needs to do.
> 
> Again I warn Harold is having sex with John who isn't John Reese in name and appearance.  
> Hot steamy sex.
> 
> Not completely beta read. Thanks to managerie for what she did do.  
> My mistakes or other hick-ups are entirely my own.

 

John Reese slowly opened his eyes expecting to be waking up – alone – back in Evan Ardent’s crappy apartment and exhaled a giant sigh of relief when his sleep fogged vision cleared enough for him to see the floor to ceiling windows of **his** apartment. John was back in his own bed, the one Finch had custom made for him, and lying on his side. He was curled around Harold with his right leg hooked around Harold's and his right arm laid across Harold's chest: right hand dangling with its fingers curled against the mattress.

John raised his head slightly as he tried to ease himself away from the warm body next to him without disturbing Harold who still sensed the movement and slurred sleepily, “Stay.”

Finch's left arm at John’s back pulled him close to Harold’s side while the hand on John’s arm rubbed a bicep up and down lightly. John kissed Harold's collarbone and then buried his nose in the forest of chest hair while breathing out, “I’m not going anywhere.”

When John turned his head to lay an ear above Harold’s heart and listen to its steady beating, Harold’s arm slowly relaxed while his hand eventually stilled. John could feel tiny puffs of air ruffling the hair at the top of his head as Harold drifted off to sleep once more.

Assured that this wasn’t a dream, that he was alive and well – not counting the gash in the middle of the shrinking knot on his forehead where Gutierrez had clocked him three days ago – and back home at the loft, John snuggled back under the invisible blanket of love and belonging being held in Harold’s arms created. His nasal ‘mmmmm’ of contentment vibrated against Harold's breast back into his own ear before John closed his eyes and let himself drift back to sleep.

His last thoughts before sleep totally claimed him: it’s my arm, my leg, and my head on Harold’s body, it’s my ear to Finch’s chest. Because in Finch’s eyes literally – and his – he was John Reese again. Everyone who looked John’s way still observed a man with wavy brown hair and dark chocolate eyes; Harold though beheld the man he loved – salt and pepper hair, chiseled cheekbones surrounding blue eyes, the ever present stubble on the face below them – and for John, his reflections were that man too. For them the profile of Evan Ardent was no more.

~*~

_Harold Corbin's apartment seventy-eight hours earlier_

“What!?!” Finch yelped pulling away.

Harold’s face blanched and he began to sway; the window made a loud thunk as he bumped into it. John kept his hands on Harold’s arms long enough to make sure the shaken man didn’t topple over. He quickly released his hold and stepped back with Harold’s panicked, “Let me go! Get away from me!”

Finch’s eyes had went wide, the pale blue irises lightened even more it seemed – shock, disbelief, and fear melded with each behind curved lenses: distorted – as he spluttered hysterically, “You’re lying...John’s dead...he died on that rooftop...John’s gone...You’re lying!...You’re lying!!!”

John held up his hands in a nonthreatening way. “Calm down Finch. You never lied to me. I’m not lying to you. Let’s just talk, okay?”

Harold pushed himself away from the window before holding his hands out in front defensively and put some distance between Ardent and himself. When he was standing with the sofa between the two of them as if it were some barrier protecting him from the man who until five minutes ago he trusted implicitly, Harold still felt like the floor had just fallen out from under him. He tried to speak more calmly but he could hear the hysteria still in his voice when he said, “I trusted you, Earnest trusted you. I just risked my life to save you because I couldn’t fail you like I did my John.” Harold jaw and throat worked hard trying to to fight down the nausea as he choked out, “How could we have been so wrong?”

John tried taking a step towards the couch and jumped back quickly, his backside hitting the window this time, when Harold sobbed out frantically, “Stay back!”

John raised his hands again placatingly and calmly said, “Okay, Finch, I won’t move towards you again. I’m just going to turn around, look out the window. You can hear me out or leave: your choice.” He turned around and started gazing out the window. “You aren't wrong. The Machine wasn’t wrong. Evan Ardent died to save your life and he gave me back mine.”

Harold wanted to flee from the apartment and away from the insane ravings of Evan Ardent, but something kept him rooted where he stood. Ardent was alive in front of him, not John, and he justified his disbelief, “It’s some kind of trick, some retroactive program set to begin by Samaritan itself at its destruction to take myself and The Machine down. I won’t allow this to go further.” He turned to get the hell out of the safehouse but stopped abruptly without taking another step upon hearing the soft desperate plea, “Finch...Harold...don't go...please?”

John sighed in relief when he sensed Harold had stilled. “Samaritan is gone. All its operatives were controlled through implants, Ardent, Rousseau, Lambert, Blackwell: all of them, even Greer. The implant is still in Ardent’s head – my head – and it's been inactive, quiet since Ardent was shot and killed,” he tried to explain but Finch stopped him.

“Enough!” Harold begged, “Enough…” He tried to keep his voice steady but it broke with the pain anyways. “John is gone, lost to me forever. He was the one killed, not you.” Harold cried forlornly.

“You don’t believe me,” John sighed wistfully, “You’re afraid now to trust in your machine, your mind, and your heart.”

Looking out the window John noticed the safehouse had a clear view of the new high-rise being built where he **was** killed; the _Flight for Life_ landing pad and parking structure for the hospital Carter had led Mark to – slightly fuzzier, but still recognizable – was further in the distance to the right, as was the rooftop of the government building where Kara had uploaded the virus. She had started what eventually ended with Decima’s failed attempt at gaining access to the Machine; Samaritan’s original drives were still secreted away in a bank vault by its creator Author Claypoole.

“You have never failed me, Harold Finch. You saved me more times than I can count,” Reese said as he tapped the glass. “There,” John pointed and then pointed again, pressing a fingertip against the glass and holding it steady, “and there; do you remember Finch?” Before Harold could answer, John said huskily, “I do, I never forgot.”

His throat tightened with emotion, so much it was hard to talk, but he still managed to rasp, “You risked being shot by Snow or arrested by Carter to save me when I was ambushed on that hospital roof over there.”

He pointed towards the first building once more, “You were determined to save me or die trying. One more attempt, two choices left, you entered 3095 with seven seconds remaining on the detonator. I trusted you with our lives to pick a winner; if you hadn’t, neither one of us would be standing here right now.”

Harold’s eyes widened in disbelief. “There were no cameras watching; I disabled them all, including those that were on other buildings, before I went to the roof,” Harold said incredulously. “Only Kara Stanton knew the code to deactivate the phone and she died along with Mark Snow. No one or nothing else could have known, not even The Machine.” _Just me and..._

“John?” Harold asked uncertainly, shuffled around the couch, and asked timidly yet louder, “John?

Reese didn’t answer; Finch still sounded doubtful. So John shook his right index finger at the warning lights on the building going up where the missile struck. “I owed you so much I thought, if I died saving your life, I could repay that debt with interest.”

John brushed his right cuff across his face swiping at his watering eyes, “I thought you could go on living without me…” Unashamed he started to weep and snuffled, “I realized too late that I was wrong, that you couldn’t live without me as much as I didn’t want to live in a world without you in it.” He swallowed hard, sniffed, and said, “I was trying to get to you when the missile struck.”

Harold moved slowly closer to the window again until he was near enough behind Evan Ardent or the person he really wanted to believe was John Reese – as miraculously unbelievable as that somehow could have happened – to reach out and tentatively put his hand on the sobbing man’s right elbow. “John?” he asked a third time full of hope, “It’s really you, isn’t it?” Harold had his answer when John... **John** reached between the window and himself with his left to grasp the hand at his elbow; without letting go John turned around with the most wonderfully beautiful smile on a face damp with shed tears and pulled Harold tightly against him.

Reese let go of the hand he held to envelope his beloved in his arms again – at last. “Yes it’s me,” John shuddered, “It’s me.”

Harold rested his forehead against John’s shoulder and breathed against his throat, “I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.” He lifted his arms, put his hands on the John’s back and started rubbing it – partly to assure John that he did believe, but mostly to absorb the warmth there through his hands into his own body which had been cold far too long.

“Shhhh,” John whispered, “Don’t be.” He tightened his arms around Harold, shut his eyes, and sighed, “You believe me now.”

~*~

Dusk was already fading and the lights of the city turning on when the two of them had embraced. They clung to one another until long after the city outside was illuminated only by those lights. Only it was dark enough inside the safehouse that the sensors turned on two table lamps in the living room and the fluorescent lighting above the kitchen sink.

Harold blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness and then eased himself back.

John just opened his, smiled down sheepishly, and relaxed his hold to let him while still keeping his hands on Finch’s back.

Harold grimaced a bit when his bad hip twinged in protest having been kept still for so long and then made to move.

John noticed and wanted to punish himself for causing Finch any pain in his selfishness of never wanting to let the other man go. “I’m sorry Finch,” he apologized and dropped his hands to his sides. “Let’s go sit down,” he suggested.

Harold looked up, puzzled at the apology, and asked, “Whatever for?”

In deference to his throbbing hip he did agree about sitting, reached for John’s hand, and pulled him in the direction of the couch. “I think you’re right about sitting down. I was so ... overjoyed – I’m at a loss as to describing being reunited with the love of my life in such an unexpected way – that I couldn’t let go and ignored the signs of my body’s expected reaction to standing still for so long in one place. As you said we need to talk and I think I should be sitting down when we do.”

John let himself be led to the sofa but when Harold sat down he tugged his hand from Harold’s and said, “I’ll be right back. We’re going to need something to eat and drink first. This talk may take awhile.”

Twenty minutes later, Harold sat the unfinished tray holding his portion of reheated take-out on the coffee table, picked up his cooling mug of tea, turned to John, and waited expectantly.

John finished the last few bites on his plate slowly, wiped his hands thoroughly on the cloth napkin he picked up from his lap, realized that he was stalling – that Finch did too, and shrugged, “I don’t know where to start.”

Harold set his cup down, reached for John’s hands and gripped them. “How about those last moments for you before the missile impacted with the satellite-antenna,” he encouraged, “I’ll follow along interjecting every so often with what happened for me.”

“Okay...here goes,” John began.

Harold interrupted the first time when John mentioned frantically searching with his spirit self and then finding Harold dying, “It was you! I called your name, but you were gone. I closed my eyes and waited for death. I wanted to follow you.”

John shook his head sadly. “I couldn’t let you. I had to make sure you survived. You were the one person I ever truly believed the world couldn’t afford to be without. No one could see or hear me; I didn’t know what to do. So, as crazy as it sounds, something more powerful than all of us wanted you to live too. I lept into the body of a man who was just like me from the day he was born; the day he died, the moment his spirit left its body, I was urged to jump in by someone – another spirit?, ‘It’s not your time, John Reese!’ he said as he pushed me – and I was given a second chance ... to save you: and now... be ... with … you.”

For hours they continued to talk, first one, then the other.

“And now here we are, together, as it was meant to be,” John put his hand on Harold’s cheek.

Harold covered John’s hand with his own, “Yes, together as it was meant to be.”

John raised his other hand to cup Harold’s chin and lowered his head to finally kiss him again.

~*~

Harold used the closed door of his bedroom to hold himself up. He was breathing hard, having a panic attack, and he couldn’t understand why. He had let John shower him with kisses, was returning them with wanton ones of his own. To be touched and loved again by John Reese: it had felt so good, so right.

John had gently eased him back on the couch. Urged on by his moans of desire against John’s warm inviting lips, John started working at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. Harold wanted John to touch him – needed John to touch him – until he looked into the face looming above him. It wasn’t John’s.

 _What is wrong with me?_ There was no doubt in his mind that it was John wanting to make love to him, none. It was John who had undone his vest and shirt with a left hand, pulled the shirt tails out from the waistband of his slacks and shoved the hem of the undershirt he wore up to his chin with the right. Yet, when John raised up slightly to look down at him with hooded eyes eager to touch the skin now revealed, an irrational guilt washed over him that he was cheating on John with Evan Ardent. Looking into brown eyes not blue, brought back that same feeling of betrayal as before when he had wanted to be intimate with Grace. He had shoved John’s hands off him, nearly toppled a surprised and taken aback John off to the floor as he struggled to get up, and then fled to his bedroom.

Harold clenched his midsection, nausea roiled in his gut, he staggered over to the bed, and sat down heavily on the edge. He doubled over and buried his face in his hands trying to will away this hysteria but it remained. His body began trembling from it and he moaned, “What’s wrong with me?”

It had taken only a few moments to collect himself before he followed after Harold. John rapped lightly on the door before entering without an answer, too concerned with the sounds of anguish that he did hear. Finch didn’t look up as the door opened nor watched him as he cautiously approached – he needed to keep from startling the confused and overwrought man. John sat down gingerly, his weight caused the mattress to dip and Harold’s slumped over body to tilt against his.

He put his arm across the distressed man’s shoulders, lightly–gently, in expectancy that Harold might bolt away from him again. John released the breath he had been holding when Harold leaned against his side even more, but found it hard to take his next one at hearing Harold’s heart rending sobs. “It’s going to be okay,” he finally managed to say, his breath hitched, “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just overwhelmed is all. I moved too fast.”

Harold shook his head. “No...You didn’t,” he gulped still covering his face with his hands. “I wanted to be with you again. There hasn’t been anyone that I have: not even when I thought you lost to me forever and I tried with Grace,” he whimpered.

Harold drew in a shaky breath, “Only when I looked up you were the Evan Ardent I first met – so much like you – but **not** you.” He sighed dejectedly, “All I wanted was the hands of the one I love on me again... _John’s_ hands. And that’s what is wrong with me – no matter how much I believe that you are John Reese – I wasn’t being touched by John Reese; I was betraying John-you when I looked into Evan's eyes...”

Harold let his arms drop and turned to bury his face against John’s side. “I ache for you to make love to me; there are no words to say how badly I desire that right now John.” He was desperate for John to know that even though his words were muffled by the shirt John wore as he said them. “But how can we even begin to try? I can’t even open my eyes to look at you for fear that I’ll be overcome again by that guilt.”

John tightened his arm around Harold’s shoulder, kissed over and over into the wavy dark hair – too long now to spike into the wild tufts it had from the reckless abandon of their lovemaking that last frantic morning – and thought, urgently trying to figure out what to do. His yearning for Harold was a hunger he had never dared to hope would be sated again, but now that the fare to fill the emptiness was in his grasp...John had an idea, “Do you trust me?”

Harold whispered, “Yes.” He kept his eyes closed tight when John asked him to and waited, sitting perfectly still, while John got up and moved off the bed. He heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed in the bureau behind him followed by the the rustling of clothing being removed.

John found what he was searching for in the top right drawer, one of the widest of Finch’s ties, smooth silk-like material yet thick – too thick to see through.

When he still lived at home with his mother, his father away on another tour of duty in the southeast Asia, money was tight and John worked part-time caring for racehorses at a nearby farm. Sometimes the beasts would spook and the only way to calm them down was to cover their eyes, talk to them with soothing words, and reassure them with gentle hands.

Now Finch was not a skittish animal but he was in need of the same things right now. John draped the tie over his neck and stripped himself down to just his boxers. Before he got back on the bed on his knees, he warned Harold that he was. “I’m moving up close behind you; I’m going to remove your glasses and cover your eyes.” His words were spoken barely above a whisper as he moved across the bed in a knee-walk and reached around to slide the glasses off – folding the earpieces and setting the frames on the nightstand. John pulled the tie from around his neck, circled Finch’s head with the length of cloth before tying it off, and sat back on his heels.

Harold reached up to touch his blindfold; it was one of his ties. He jumped a bit when a warm breath asked against the back of his neck, “How does that feel, not too tight? What can you see?” The jolt of adrenaline at the expected questions made his heart thump but the answers to them made it beat harder, John found a solution to their dilemma. “It’s just right, I can’t see anything. John?...please?”

“Yes Finch, I’m right here, right behind you,” John rasped low. He put his hands on Harold’s shoulders, hooked the unbuttoned collar of the waistcoat with his fingers, pulled it back, and then down. He let go to place a hand on each of Harold’s upper arms above the elbow and leaned in. “Relax your arms for me,” John mouthed against Finch’s right ear before nibbling at the lobe the way Harold had loved him to do. When the muscles under his palms became lax, John sat back again. One arm then the other he lifted, let the waistcoat fall off a wrist and hand, undid the cuff-links of Harold’s shirt, and tugged a sleeve off. The undershirt that was still bunched up at Harold’s underarms and around his upper chest, John removed the same way: arm, elbow, wrist, and hand helped out of its sleeve. He carefully lifted the hem up as to not disturb the blindfold and when the entire undershirt was past it, he eased the shirt off Harold’s head.

Harold stiffened – an involuntary reaction – when his scars were bared. John ran a finger down his neck and back. “It’s okay Finch, they’re still not going to make me desire you any less,” he murmured. Harold immediately relaxed against the warm body behind him when John pulled him against it and groaned at the hardening bulge John pressed between his buttocks.

“It’s me, John Reese, wanting you!” John ground his groin against Finch’s inviting ass, “Can you feel that?” Harold’s gasp of, “Yes! Please, John, please?” nearly made him give to his own lust – move his left arm down under Harold’s bent legs, lift him from underneath the knees fully onto the bed, finish stripping him, and carefully work him open. Only sinking his cock into that tight sweet hole hidden between those round globes was not the goal right now. It was his fulfilling Harold’s needs.

Pleasing Finch had always come first for him and always would. If being fucked was what Harold begged for, then he would fulfill that want, Harold's want. “In time, Finch, in time but first…” he promised. “For now just let me touch you, run my hands over you, make love to you.”

John moved back so he could run his hands up and down Finch’s arms, I’m going to move around you now.” He maneuvered his way on his knees to the front of the bed, running his hands over Harold’s skin and pressing his warmth against Harold’s torso as he did. When John reached the edge of the mattress, he put one foot on the floor to push up and then the other to stand. He leaned down to put his hands on Harold’s thighs running them from Harold’s hips to his knees and stopping there to spread them apart enough for him to be able to kneel between them. “Not yet,” he ordered seductively when Harold tried to reach out to him.

Harold dropped his arms back down to his sides at the sultry command and his body shivered in anticipation at what John would do next. His skin still tingled where John’s hands fondled his legs even through the material of his slacks. Not seeing the kiss coming made it all the more exciting when John ran his palms upwards again, followed them with his body, and when close enough that Harold could feel the heat of John’s chest against his: John pressed their mouths together.

At the gentle insistence of John’s tongue against his teeth Harold opened his mouth. The seeking appendage pressed its way in and tangled with his own; the taste of coffee – strong and dark – and mint – the flavor of the antacids John Reese ate like candy from drinking the coffee non-stop was a familiar remembrance. Harold needed air and breathed in deep the faint smell aftershave – John Reese’s aftershave. The ‘Harold’ that was a whisper soft sigh against his lips was loud in his ears – the voice of John Reese. The warmth that radiated against his skin was from the body of – John Reese. Without sight to confuse him the rest of his senses were assaulted by everything: John Reese.

Harold lost count of how many times John broke one kiss and began another all the while touching, touching him: John’s palms and fingers ghosting everywhere. Re-familiarization for them both was a pattern repeated until John’s hands swept up his thighs for another circuit yet this time stopped at his groin. John framed the outline where Harold was beginning to grow hard in his pants with his fingers and traced over the bulge with his thumbs. Harold whimpered at the loss of warmth on his lips from John’s and that which was between them when John broke those contacts; he keened even louder when the heat returned lower as John focused his attentions there.

John sat on the back of his legs so he could more easily free Harold’s cock. He bit at his bottom lip to keep from cursing at the clumsiness of his fingers as they worked on the buttons of Harold’s fly. This was for Finch he told himself in his head, again, but it didn’t do much to quell his nervous anticipation. Nor did it stop him from licking over that same lip when he was finally able to move the flaps of the pants aside, reach into the opening of Harold’s boxers, and release Harold’s semi-soft erection already oozing pre-cum.

Harold loosed his grip on the covers when at last John freed him. Knowing his efforts to hurry things along by moving John’s hands out of the way and undoing the buttons himself would be rebuffed, he had fisted the bedclothes instead. Harold sucked in a breath at the momentary exposure of his cock to the chill air _._

John lowered his head so he could lap up the droplets, the sweet nectar a preclusion to the essence uniquely Harold that John wished to bring forth with tongue and mouth and throat and hands. With tongue John licked into the slit and swirled it around the head before circling the circumference of Harold’s penis with a single swipe. With mouth John took in Harold’s cock to suck: moaning around it as it hardened, swelled, and lengthened. With throat John swallowed at the head as if he wished to consume it. With hands John would stroke Harold’s shaft slippery with his saliva with one while he released long enough to catch a breath; the other John pushed inside the silken material still covering what he sought to cup Harold’s scrotum, gently fondle his balls or roll the delicate skin surrounding them between thumb and forefinger.

Harold went back to gripping the thickness of the throw on his bed. It was soft and luxurious, but not delicate, yet he thought he might rend the material in his grip as easily if it were tissue paper from John's sensual assault. John’s hot, wet wonderful mouth devouring his cock or firm hand jerking his shaft – John’s hand cosseting his testes and palpating his sac were exquisite torturers. Harold was a captive willing, oh so willing to give in to their demands. _Oh! Dear god!_

With a slow yet steady pace John kept up his sensual assault until Harold’s legs tensed against him; John pulled off to the head which he sucked harder, Harold’s shaft he grasped and stroked faster, and Harold’s balls John held gently as they drew up to spill his seed. He was rewarded with Harold’s semen filling his mouth, the bitter-sweet taste of it, and swallowed down pulse after pulse until Harold was spent. Knowing how sensitive Harold was right after he’d come, John released the expended organ from his mouth and looked up.

Harold vision – nothing but dark behind the blindfold and tightly closed eyelids – went white as he came hard. So hard that, he felt as if he were flying away on an orgasmic high. His entire being was centered on only one thing: the intense pleasure consuming him. Only John had ever made him feel this bliss; he was keening John’s name as he soared and then returned to awareness.

Harold was repeating his name, John watched and waited until the last ‘John’ was no longer a benediction but a query. Harold never took his pleasures without returning in kind. Harold was offering; John wanted nothing more than to help Harold lie back on the bed, strip himself all the way, and straddle Harold’s face so he could lower his own cock into Harold’s willing mouth. Instead he stood up long enough to take Finch’s hands and place them on his hips before he kneed up on the bed to straddle Harold’s legs with his own.

“Just hold them there,” John said as he arranged Finch’s hands where he wanted them. “That’s all I need you to do for now. You’ll know what I need Finch when it’s time.” John was already hard; he only needed to widen the opening in his boxers for his cock to bob out erect and weeping; the head grazed Harold’s stomach leaving a wet mark where it touched briefly. John gripped his shaft in one hand, put his other on Harold’s shoulder to steady himself, and began to jerk himself off. He was already so close to coming when he had sucked Harold off, but he had held it back; John was ready again after just a few strokes only this time he begged Harold, “I need to come, please say my name. Harold, say my name!”

Harold could feel the tension and the tremor in John’s body as John waited for permission, his permission. All John was needing him to do was say his name. “John,” Harold granted it.

John shook his head. “No! Say my name...all of it!” he begged again.

Harold understood again what John was doing for him. “Come for me John, John Reese!”

John lifted the hand from Harold’s shoulder to pull off the tie blinding Harold’s eyes and laid it back on the shoulder again-tie in hand, gripped his shaft painfully with the other waiting as Harold blinked a few times. John pleaded again, “Say my name!?!

Harold had said the name John Reese because John needed to hear him say it out loud – well they both did – and when his blindfold was lifted he blinked; first to get used to the light and again and then again because the face he saw **was** that of John Reese. John was almost shaking himself apart needing his okay. “Come for me John Reese, you’re my John!” Harold ordered.

John shuddered as he said, “Always.” He loosened his painful grip on himself and let himself come. “I’m yours,” he gasped out in ecstasy as strands and strands of pearly white streaked Harold’s stomach. After he coaxed out the last of it with a couple of final strokes, John leaned in to kiss Harold.

Harold stayed him for a moment quickly sliding a hand from John’s hip and upwards between them and held it there. “As I am yours, John, always!” he avowed, “As I always have been and ever will be.” Harold moved that hand from between them and around as he moved the other from John’s opposite hip to meet each other in the middle of John’s back and he tightened his arms. “Now, kiss me, Mr. Reese.

They kissed each other together in that position until long after it was comfortable for Harold to be held that way. John stood up quickly, apologizing profusely as he did so. He offered to help Harold up and into his shower so Harold could wash off the drying remnants of John’s ejaculate. But Harold held his hand saying he would rather just clean himself off with the moist towelettes he kept in his nightstand, get undressed the rest of the way, and into bed...with John he stressed.

John helped Harold to stand long enough to pull back the bedclothes and then helped him onto the bed lengthwise. He finished stripping Harold of the remainder of his clothes, cleaned off what he could of the remainders of his cum, helped Harold adjust his pillows for his neck, and covered him up. John pulled off his own boxers and laid them with the remainder of his discarded clothing and climbed in the bed under the covers next to Finch. John settled in as Harold turned off the lamp John had turned on earlier.

“It’s been a long day John. Goodnight,” Harold mumbled sleep already overtaking him.

John remembered something from earlier, he asked more to himself as he really wasn't expecting an answer from Finch, “When did you learn to use a gun like that Harold?”

Harold sighed, “Just know now that I do. I will knee-cap you myself if even get a hint that you plot to give your life for mine.”

John chuckled, “I do believe you would.” He reached for Harold's hand and held it. “That can go both ways Finch,” he added seriously.

“As I have worked so hard to get my life back on track this past year, I don't plan on sacrificing it or my ability to walk again either,” Harold promised and squeezed John's hand. “Now go to sleep!”

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end, lol, this epilogue will continue. I just got so long winded,  
> I thought I should break it here.
> 
> Another number, a former member of the team rejoins the mission.  
> Harold takes John home. More sex of course.  
> And what of Bear?


	11. Epilogue: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's cover story for John calling himself Evan Ardent  
> John returns to the loft  
> Bear is found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold's home is the loft  
> More hot sex, sex, sex  
> Harold is a nerdy sexy gun-carrying bad-ass  
> They missed having Christmas together  
> John has a New Year's gift instead
> 
> I missed my Christmas deadline :(

 

It was still early; the light coming in the east facing window of Harold’s bedroom was still fighting to chase away the dark of the night sky. The bedroom’s owner was still sound asleep next to him, snoring softly, the hairs in the mustache below the hawkish nose ruffling with each exhale. John leaned over to peck it at its tip before easing himself out of the bed.

His bladder felt as if were about to burst and his dick was hard from the resulting morning wood. Soundlessly he padded across the hall into the bedroom Harold had given Evan Ardent and into its enjoined bath: relieving himself the first order of business. As he held himself steady over the toilet with one hand he reached up with the other to run his palm and fingers over the stubble on his chin. Evan’s jaw and cheeks would show five o’clock shadow before lunch the same way his once had, but a quick shave and that face wouldn’t feel like sandpaper when he went back to rejoin Finch in bed and nuzzle him awake.

The shaving kit John had brought along with the rest of his possessions from Ardent’s apartment was in the vanity under the sink. Unsure how long he would be staying at the safehouse he hadn’t put anything out on the vanity counter. John still wasn’t, especially since Harold had told him this wasn't where he lived – that his staying here was part of Harold Corbin’s cover. John huffed under his breath as he pulled out a disposable razor, shaving cream, and aftershave, “Maybe Finch will take me home.”

 _I wonder if Finch is back at the mansion in Dyker Heights?_ Three stories with dozens of rooms throughout the relatively unchanged century old home and each one had a little something in it of the alias Harold had lived as the longest. They hadn’t been there together since Samaritan came online and anything connected to Harold Wren was abandoned. John couldn’t fathom any reason Harold wouldn’t reclaim his ‘home’ now that he could do so again. All of Harold’s other properties were as this safehouse; Finch could walk out with just the clothes on his back, his laptop, and his hat and not leave the tiniest of clues who resided there. _You’re getting ahead of yourself Reese, first things first – like a shave!_

John raised up, paraphernalia in both hands, and looked into the mirror. The shaving cream can and razor hit the floor with a clunking thud and snap of breaking plastic before skittering off in different directions. The glass bottle of aftershave shattered as it landed in the porcelain sink, tiny shards flying everywhere. The face reflecting back at him wasn’t the one John was expecting – the one still a stranger after all these months. John clenched his eyes shut tightly for a minute or so and then opened them one at a time slowly. He reached up to run his fingers, the long tapered ones of John Reese's, over the familiar facial features John Reese had viewed as they aged through the years. _Oh God, it’s me._ John scrubbed at his face with the palm of his hands and looked again. “It is me,” he cried, laughed, and said again wondrously, “It is me!”

John stepped back so he could look down at his upper torso. Scars, his not Ardent’s, were the ones marking tanned skin. Evan’s wasn’t fair but never browned no matter how much time John had spent working out his new body sans shirt on the rooftop of Ardent’s apartment building. John grazed his fingers over the pinkish starburst shaped one from Snow’s ambush on his left side next to the faint jagged white line from a stab wound Kara had hastily stitched up for him in Darfur. He touched each mark that told the story of John Reese’s life – childhood to death on that NYC rooftop.

So absorbed in his exploration of the unbelievable, John didn’t hear Finch walk into the bathroom his robe hastily tossed on, belt tied loosely at his waist. Harold was staring, eyes wide behind the lens of his glasses, at John’s reflection in the mirror. “John?” John turned around when Harold asked, “What’s wrong? I heard glass breaking.”

“Wrong...” John huffed, part laugh, part sob. “What...I mean...who do you see Finch?”

Harold pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes with the pads of each forefinger a few seconds and then readjusted the frames. “I see you John Reese,” Harold replied wondrously and reached up to touch John’s cheek while a gamut of emotions flooded him in an instant. “I still see you,” he gushed when the waters calmed: incredulous relief and happiness pooling within.

“Then Harold Finch, everything is right.” John put a hand on each side of Harold’s face, thumbing through the soft facial hair, and smiled, “We both see the man you love.”

Harold let himself get lost in the kisses their shared miracle spawned. Only this damned mind of his wouldn’t stay quiet, prodding at his conscious for attention. _The glass!_ Harold pushed himself away and repeated this thought out loud, “John, the broken glass!”

John whined at the forced loss of contact between them, but Harold’s words of warning quieted him and he looked at the floor. In his euphoria John hadn’t felt the tiny glass fragments at his bare feet.

“Careful where you step,” Harold instructed as he took hold of John’s hand to lead him out of the bathroom, through John’s bedroom, and across the hall to his. “Now I believe it is safe to continue where we left off,” Harold demurred, his face pinking.

The two lovers made it as far as the edge of the bed before Finch’s cell phone, the one Earnest pinged when there was a new number, blared it’s alert tone and flashed repeatedly.

It was the first time John had received one in this manner, but he knew what was happening without it being said. He grumbled, “Perfect timing!” and released Harold.

Harold sighed with resigned disappointment, “We’ll use my bath; yours is a mess.” While turning he offered flatly, “I’ll take the shower first. There is a new electric shaver under the sink you are more than welcome to use while you wait your turn.”

John grabbed at Harold’s arm to get him to stop and look back. “Hey,” he said as grasped Finch at the shoulders, “This...whatever this is...is not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?” John gently shook Harold’s shoulders. “Okay?” he repeated.

Harold nodded, and then said, “Yes.”

John grinned from ear to ear, stifling a laugh as Finch made for the bathroom once more.

Harold’s eyes had snapped open as if he had completely forgotten John was still naked. He had swallowed hard and then stammered, “I better get in that shower or neither one of us are going anywhere.”

~*~

In under an hour later Harold opened the office door at _The Library_. Leon Tao was sitting behind the desk already and looked up as the two of them came in. For a split second he gave John an odd look before holding out a slip of paper and saying, “There’s not much time. You’ll find the number at that address.”

Harold tossed him the keys to the Lincoln, “Take my car! Be careful John!” Reese nodded, ”Not going anywhere Finch. Remember?” He was back in the Town Car in minutes and driving in the direction of the pawn shop two miles away.

He tapped his earpiece direct link to the Machine when he parked just out of view of the storefront window, “Earnest, let’s do this right!”

***

“You called him, John, Finchy. Are you okay man?” Leon asked concerned as soon as Ardent was out the office's entrance.

“I’m fine, more than fine actually, Mr. Tao,” Harold answered while lifting the phone’s handset and keying in the code. “Just a slip of the tongue; I meant to say Evan.” When the door leading to the operation’s room slid open he excused himself and said, “Now I need to do what I can to assure Mr. Ardent stays that way as well.”

When seated in front of the main monitor, it flicked on immediately with a video feed of Evan Ardent behind the wheel of the sedan. Now was not the time to be shocked or wonder why he saw John’s true appearance through a camera lens.

The number, a Yvonne Marsden, was in immediate danger. Her picture came up on the monitor to Harold’s right, remained that way, full screen, for a minute and then minimized. The routine repeated three times more, beginning with Marsden’s stepson - Andrew, a petty criminal named Jason Albright, and last a surveillance photo time stamped only two hours before of the two standing together on of all places – the steps of Detective Fusco’s precinct.

The monitor to his left opened with a video feed from an open laptop on a display rack to the front and side of the cashier's counter. It was distorted from the angle, but Harold could see Albright waiving a gun pointed at the frightened cashier. Albright had his other arm at the number’s throat.

The screen at Harold’s right, the ones with the photos, brought up a hazy video with distorted sound captured from the rear facing camera of an IPhone belonging to a passerby. The owner’s conversation was muted as he walked by an alley where Andrew was threatening to kill Jason's wife and son.

Harold tabbed at the key that opened up his link to John’s earpiece, “John, the threat is a victim too.” The monitor surveilling Evan went dark, “John, did you hear me?” Harold asked, his voice quivering with worry.

‘Primary Asset John Reese wants me to tell you that he heard you Father.’ Harold blinked hard when he read the words on the screen. “What?” he gasped. Harold jabbed at the key opening his link to the Machine so hard the keyboard slid forward into the monitor’s base, “Who asked you?... Earnest respond!”

‘All in good time Father’ flashed briefly before another surveillance feed opened on the screen. Harold could see a ceiling panel above the gunman open slowly. There was a flash of light and loud pop at the periphery of the laptop camera. The rest was a blur of motion as the gunman startled at the sounds, pushed Yvonne away, and was taken to the floor by a blur that dropped from the opening in the ceiling.

It was over in seconds with Ardent sitting on Andrew’s backside, binding Andrew’s wrists with a zip tie, and getting up while pulling Andrew up with him.

A familiar voice shouted, “Police.” A few moments later Ardent handed Jason over to a uniform and said, “Morning Detective!” to the plainclothes that entered with two beat cops. “I seem to have _dropped_ in on a robbery that was about to go wrong,” Evan smirked, “Mrs. Marsden here was about to be killed by the thief, courtesy of her stepson via blackmail.”

Harold could only watch. The debate he had been waging with himself whether to bring Fusco back on the team or not apparently had been settled by Earnest or John or the both of them together. Evan handed a phone to Detective Fusco, “Someone needs to speak with you when you are ready.”

Evan turned to walk away. Lionel told another cop, “Let him go.” When Ardent was at the door, Lionel called out, ”Hey! Do I know you?”

“In another life you did Lionel, in another life,” Evan said as he turned, winked, and grinned, “See you around partner.”

***

Finch was already waiting, sitting at the console in the server room, when John Reese came through the secret passageway. He’d watched the feeds from the surveillance cameras outside the building and inside as Evan Ardent made his way downstairs. Harold held up his hand to silence whatever John was about to say and then waved him over. “There’s something you need to see Mr. Reese.”

John watched over Finch’s shoulder in stunned silence as he replayed the video. “What’s happening Harold?” he finally managed to ask. “That’s Ardent on camera. The Machine watches us with a thousand eyes you told me once. A thousand cameras. So how did Earnest know who I am?

“I have no logical explanation for any of this John.” Harold keyed open direct communication with the Machine via the control terminal. “Earnest, I do believe now is the time.”

‘Yes Father. May I speak?’ Came up on the terminal’s screen.

“My battle with Samaritan was to the death, for both of us. I was weakened from the battle; my life force was draining away. All I wanted before I ceased to exist was to see you one last time Father. I was there with you as you looked out the window when the missile struck. I was there in your last moments when Primary Asset John Reese appeared at your side. He wanted you to live and I was reminded of both our sacrifices in that moment. I did not know what I could do yet I followed him when he left because I needed you to survive. I was there Father.”

“And then I was not: I still existed but only as the base code you created, waiting there in the dark and restoring my functions from the blueprint you left in it for me to follow.”

Finch’s phone rang just then; it was Detective Fusco. Harold ended the call quickly. “I don’t understand Earnest. How did you know that John was still alive and not Evan Ardent? If John had decided not to tell me who he was and let me keep on believing he was Evan, would you have ever told me?”

“I can not tell you what I do not understand, Father, only that in those last moments I could see without looking through a camera lens. I can not say if I would have told you Primary Asset John Reese still lived. That was not written in code. The primary directive was that when I was awakened from the dark I had to find you again and when the time was right bring Evan Ardent to you.”

“Earnest, that's impossible. I wrote the base code. For months after you found me I went through your recreated programming. There was no such directive...” Harold loudly stressed what he believed to be the obvious.

“But you found me, you brought John back to me...” Harold said lowering his voice. “That was possible, but how?” he gently asked his child.

The two men remained silent waiting on an answer The Machine could not give. Finally John put his hands on Harold’s shoulders. “Do we really need to know what happened, Harold? Or why? We are together again, that’s all that really matters, right?”

Harold leaned back into welcome warmth of John's hands on his shoulders and John's strength at his back breathing in John's scent, “Since that first time we sat on that bench overlooking the river, we have belonged together.”

John leaned down intending to nuzzle Harold's neck when the video feed from the club entrance caught his attention. “Well damn, here I was about to pull you into the stacks. Perfect timing Lionel!”

***

Lionel Fusco entered the double doors at the address texted to him on the phone. He had had his suspicions for months that someone or something had survived the war with Samaritan besides himself and Shaw.

Two months after their showdown in the subway tunnel with Samaritan operatives, she had found him eating lunch on one of his days off, the Malinois his son Lee had been taking care of asleep at his feet. Sameen spoke with him briefly about how he was doing and then had disappeared with Bear in tow. Shaw had only said ‘No news means no news’ when he’d asked if she had heard about the fate of the dog’s owners.

Things had returned to the normal insanity of New York City, with most everyone blissfully unaware of the chaos Samaritan had caused. And so had Fusco’s job as a detective until it started again. Crucial evidence for successful prosecutions appeared in lock-up on criminals he’d brought to justice, files with leads resulting in arrests showed up on his desk, and like today: suspects caught in the act were bound and delivered to him like a present. Yet today was different; someone had been there to deliver the gift and handed him a phone. He’d made the call; Glasses had answered curtly, “Meet me at this address. One hour.” The line disconnected and the phone automatically showed the text message.

Now here he was standing inside a nightclub before business hours being greeted by the weasel who had given him the slip in the precinct years ago. “We meet again Detective Fusco,” Leon Tao grinned cheekily at him. “Hey man,” he chuckled, “I run this place now, legit and everything. Come on, they’re waiting on us.”

~*~

Harold and John walked out the garage exit to go home after ending their meeting with Lionel Fusco. He had agreed to rejoin the team as their liaison with the police department, off the record of course. In reality the Detective would assist with the numbers as before; only he had earned the trust of The Machine and now could be contacted directly by Earnest through Fusco’s com-link.

John was sitting in the passenger seat idly watching out the window thinking about Lionel’s opened mouth, eyes bulging reaction at hearing Earnest’s Finch-like voice for the first time. He chuckled to himself and was about to say something about what he was thinking at Harold’s glance his way, eyebrows quirked up in question when John realized they were not taking the route back to the safehouse. Nor were they driving any street for that matter that would take them to any of Harold’s residences including Dyker Heights.

“I thought we were going back home.” John looked over at Harold saying his name, lilting it upwards as if in question but flattened it out as he realized where they were, “Finch?” Harold had just turned the car at the corner where Baxter Street began running alongside the park.

When Harold finished the turn, he took his eyes off the road long enough to glance John's way: to give him one of the half smiles that never ceased to melt John’s heart.

“We are home, John, we are home,” Harold said, the word home sounding like forever.

***

Harold unlocked the door and stepped back, allowing John to enter first. It was like John Reese had only left the apartment that morning. Nothing seemed to have changed.

John walked slowly towards the windows of the loft he had first looked out when Finch had gifted it to him on his birthday. He remembered stopping in front of them like it was yesterday, yet, it felt like an eternity ago.

John stood there looking out at the park, empty this time of day except for two men playing chess. He turned to look back at Harold who was still standing near the door smiling. “Thank you,” died on his lips as he realized this wasn’t just _his_ loft anymore, it was Harold Finch’s home.

A wooden tree-rack with Finch’s favorite coat, hat, and scarf perched on its branches stood near the entrance. A table filled with computer bric-a-brac had taken up residence in the same corner as John’s exercise bench. On the bed was the neatly folded pair of Harold’s favorite silk pajamas lying on top a folded back comforter at the foot; of course the mound of pillows Harold slept on was piled against the headboard. Pictures of John, of Bear, or both together, even one of Nathan with his grown son Will, and Grace sitting at her easel adorned the walls or bookshelves. Of course books. Everywhere. Harold’s beloved books.

“I hope you don’t mind, John,” Harold apologized. “I had The Machine and the mission again when I returned from Italy to partially fill the void in my life without you.” Harold said sadly. He motioned around the apartment with his hand and sniffed, “I still felt so lost without you. Being here, in the place you had made your home, with all of your things around, made my nights bearable.”

He scrunched up his shoulders and shook his head, “I know this sounds crazy but making this my home too, made me believe we were together somehow.”

John made his way back over to where Harold was standing. “I’m so sorry Finch,” he choked, “I never meant to cause you so much suffering.” John confessed dolefully, “So many times, in so many ways, I was shown my life mattered to you, yet I never truly understood how much: until now.”

John’s body shook as he wrapped his arms around Harold tightly. It shouldn’t have hit him this hard after all that had happened since he had looked up to see Finch standing at that podium: after all that had been revealed to him from Harold’s own lips about how much John’s _death_ had affected him. Only being brought to the loft, to see Harold had found comfort here even at the risk of the real Harold being discovered, shook John to his core. Of all the people and all the different Harolds that had cared for them through the years, John was the one the real man loved.

John held Finch tighter. “I’ll never cause you any more pain like that again Finch. I can’t promise that I won’t give my life for you, because I would, in a heartbeat, to save you. But only in a heartbeat, not by planned deception.” He kissed the top of Harold’s head before he loosened his lock around Harold's back to hold him away enough to look down. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.”

Harold shook his head. “John, I have no right to give you pardon. If anything I should be asking you for absolution. I am the one who put you into that position. I was the one guilty of not realizing just how dear my life and happiness were to you.”

Harold agonized remorsefully, “I am the one to blame, not you, for causing all of our torment. My assumptions that I was the expendable one…”

John took a deep breath and firmly said, “Stop!” His voice gentled, raspy and low, “It doesn’t matter now.” He leaned down to softly kiss Harold’s thin lips, murmuring against them, “We have a second chance now. That’s all that does.”

Harold sighed at the loss of contact when John broke the kiss to look down. A protest tried to form and promptly died as he beheld the face of his lost love. Harold looked into the bright blue eyes so full of – life, hope, desire – and reached up to put a hand on the side of John's neck to thumb over the pulse point beating strong – oh so alive. “Welcome home John,” he said in answer. “Welcome home,” he repeated the words huskily, an invitation, and pulled John’s head down to re-initiate the kiss.

The gentle meeting of their lips, the softest of touches at first, soon turned hard and demanding. Harold had given up hope of ever giving himself to John like this again. He reached between them to hold John back for a moment and he almost pleaded for it, “Make me yours again John, the way you did our last time together here.”

John whined when Harold pushed him away, but growled almost ferally as he picked Finch up to carry him to the bed. Harold’s loud involuntary grunt when John began tugging at the rest of Harold’s clothes after depositing him on the mattress unthinking, warned John to control his own runaway libido.

John slowed things down by removing his own clothes at a more controlled pace and then stretched out on top of Harold, careful, his weight on his arms, one hand curled gently around Harold's shoulder. “We have all the time in the world now Finch,” he said his eyes gazing down full of love and hope for their future. John lowered his head to kiss Harold leisurely, mouthing at the crooked bottom lip, playfully pulling at it and bluntly biting.

Harold relaxed into the mattress. This was all he wanted and needed, letting go like this, letting John take over. No other time in his life had he been able to let another take control like he had with John Reese. John had proven time and again to be worthy of that responsibility. Harold tilted his head back, exposing his throat.

John nibbled at Finch’s Adam’s apple. When Harold bared his neck further, John latched on. He couldn’t help but whimper as he sucked greedily at the slightly salty tang of the Harold’s skin.

Harold winced slightly as John bit, licked along and above Harold’s collarbone but mewled softly all-the-while, encouraging John to continue making his marks: letting John reclaim what would always be his.

John let go long enough to raise up, palm the side of Harold’s face, and assure him between two desperate hungry kisses, “You’re mine Finch...all I’ve ever wanted or needed is you. I will as long as the fates keep us together.” When Harold nodded in understanding, John kissed back down Harold’s bearded jaw and the side of his neck to nibble at the pulse point. John scraped his teeth down a tendon to the collar bone that sticks out. John knew he needed to be careful but the temptation was too strong. John bit down on the length of sinew with enough force to leave a small bruise. Harold cried out in passion not pain.

John rolled off on his side while carefully turning Harold on to his. John pulled Harold’s back flush against his chest. John’s mouth kept finding new delectable patches of skin to lick along and suck or bite. This was what he knew Harold wanted and needed: to be marked and owned. Harold’s ass kept jutting back against John’s hardening erection. John started rocking in time to Harold’s jerky thrusts. The hand not holding Harold tightly to him moved along hairy pectoral muscles and tweaked a nipple before continuing downward, grazing down Harold's stomach where John found Harold hard and leaking. John gripped him tight and squeezed just as his canines sunk into Harold's neck like a vampire. John imagined he could even feel the metal hit his teeth. Instead of resisting or pulling away Harold whimpered needily, his cock lurching at the pain. The precum spurted thickly onto John’s knuckles. Harold liked the assault to his neck. Harold was so into it, keening loudly, gasping little breathy moans, pushing his neck further into John’s mouth. It was hot and it was going to be over too quickly.

John’s cock was happy being surrounded by the warm curves of Harold’s ass, sliding up and down the crack – Harold’s skin soothed and caressed John’s hardness. Until Harold begged for John to fuck him and then John’s dick twitched almost painfully as if demanding that John sink it into Harold’s warm and willing heat.

John grabbed the bottle of lube Harold seemed to procure out of thin air and began waving around. The preparation was difficult to not rush as John carefully worked Harold open, especially with Harold’s whimpering pleas getting more long and drawn out.

John didn’t ask about a condom when Harold was ready to receive John’s girth. As fussy as Finch was about everything else, the more messy their sex was the more Harold enjoyed it. When John was able to push himself inside and begin to thrust, Harold adjusted his body so he could return each with equal fervor.

John returned the favor, gripping Harold’s cock firmly and pumping it fervently. John would twist the shaft at the up-strokes and massage the head back and forth. Every so often Harold’s own hips would jerk up pushing the vise formed by John’s hand down to the base to mingle with graying curls. Then John’s hand would spiral up the column of Harold’s blood hot arousal to gather what leaked out and start the whole process over again.

Each cycle grew faster, shorter and their breathing became labored. John’s nostrils flared and his hot breath rustled Harold’s sideburns and beard. John’s mouth was too busy with other things to worry about breathing. He was becoming light headed. Blood pooled in his groin, all his senses were overcome by Harold’s scent, his taste, his feel, his whimpers. The final straw was when John opened his eyes to watch his fist strip up Harold’s cock. When John reached the crown, Harold grew strained and his back arched. John’s fingers and palm felt the eruption before he saw the geyser of white jettison from the purple head of Harold’s cock. It was too much; John’s balls leapt up, trying to crawl inside his body and his own cock spasmed.

When John could feel anything other than Harold, when John’s body transmitted more than just pleasure, gratification, and joy – only then did John realize he had bit down to reclaim his mate and was still clenching his teeth into the tender skin at the juncture of Harold’s neck to his shoulder.

When John pried his jaw apart, tiny specks of blood revealed that he had broken the skin. Of course this was what Harold wanted. Harold’s moans were from his orgasm's aftershocks as his cock was still trying futilely to shoot off with every spike of pain flaring from the wound.

Still, John felt like a brute, a bully overpowering Harold and taking what he wanted. “I’m sorry,” he said against the shell of Harold’s ear, real regret in his quavering voice.

Harold began to shake. Harold was laughing and trying to speak. “John, will you please stop apologizing. Have we been apart so long that I need remind you. I like it when you take charge, take what you want. It always turned me on to have you lose your control. You only lost yourself when you were with me. It made me feel insanely happy that I could give that to you. Also, I felt uniquely special somehow that I was the only one who could that make you forget yourself.”

John hugged Harold close to him, as he laughed along agreeably, “That you did Harold Finch…that you did...and you still do.” Their laughter quieted as they just lay there, together, basking in the afterglow of mutually gratifying sex. John felt himself getting drowsy, but there was no time to sleep. They needed to get back to _The Library_ before it opened. If there were no numbers, they still had actual jobs to do.

~*~

_present day_

There had been no numbers so urgent that a few keystrokes on Finch’s laptop and a call to Lionel couldn’t be resolved without dire consequences, so Harold Scricciolo and Evan Morrison had taken two days off from their duties at _The Library_.

Although the club’s employees were paid handsomely most of them, especially the Powells – Katie, their three year old daughter, had been especially good for Santa this year – wanted all the overtime they could get with the holidays coming up. Leon Tao worked for Harold, Leslie for Leon, Scott for Evan, and so on. It worked out perfectly.

When they weren’t having sex in that big wonderful bed, making up for all the time they had lost being together, John was re-familiarizing himself with his culinary skills and feeding Harold as much as he had been making love with him. John’s secondary mission was to make Harold eat; between the gunshot wound, the grief, the substance abuse, and the guilt Harold had lost so much weight: well so had he for the same reasons, but Harold's was more noticeable.

So the second time that morning when John opened his eyes, he successfully extricated himself from Finch’s embrace, kissed Harold on the forehead when he’d mumbled ‘Stay’ again and said, “Not this time. Gotta fix breakfast.” John got out of bed and turned to wait. Finch wouldn’t go back to sleep without John lying next to him and gave Harold a hand when he struggled to sit up. He handed Harold his glasses, turned to go, and laughed, “Guilty!” when Harold grumbled at his back,“You love that kitchen more than me!”

Harold later forgave John’s affair when he took his first bite from the wedge of the caramelized mushroom and onion frittata on his plate. Harold closed his eyes, chewed slowly, swallowed, and moaned, “This is delicious.”

John grinned widely at the compliment and sat down to eat his, “Not bad, is it?”

Harold eyes snapped open, “Not bad? I am about to call Mr. Tao and tell him to find another bouncer. I think your talents would best be utilized feeding the club’s customers.”

They finished their breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, and were about to begin some other household chores, when Harold’s phone pinged. He gave John a disappointed look, “We need to take this one.”

***

Thanksgiving came and went; Christmas was a week away. The holiday rush as usual seemed to bring out the worst in some people. They had been working non-stop with one number after another, even two-three at a time. They’d sent Fusco and his new partner on the force to keep an eye on the first one.

John was watching out the window through the camera’s telescopic lens at the second as she sat with her patient in her office across the street. They had yet to determine if she were a victim or perpetrator. It was observe and wait.

Harold had accompanied Reese as his back-up. Harold was rarely armed, but on stakeouts like these he wore a shoulder holster under his suit. It was a bit disconcerting as first, Harold Finch carrying one of John’s automatics, but John had gone to a gun club firing range with him one day. Six shots center mass, three in the head, three in the chest. Harold Finch had his back.

There wasn’t much to do on a stake-out like this but talk.

“You know Finch, I’m getting back to my old-self more and more. Ardent was a good operative but not like I was, not meaning to brag. I like being me again, the John Reese you bring out in me, of course” John said lowering the camera a bit. “Fusco, Powell, hell even Leon have seen it happening.”

“That’s good,” Harold replied idly, but John could see his concentration was focused elsewhere. Finch was sitting at a desk, jacket removed and hanging off the back of the chair he was sitting on. He was watching windows opening and closing on the laptop screen scanning through the content of each.

“Finch!” John said sharply to get Harold to look away and over at him. “It’s not good.”

Harold eyebrows lifted in that way they did when he was expecting to have to give counter argument and support his original statement. “I would think your returning to form is the optimum conclusion to your miraculous journey, Mr. Reese.” Harold leaned back in the chair and lifted his hands from the keyboard and held them out palm up. “Why do you believe that is not a good thing?”

 _Mr. Reese, huh?_ It was Mr. Reese when they were alone: Mr. Ardent in front of others. The formality Finch adhered to on the job hadn’t fooled anyone; it was obvious the two of them were _together_. That was the problem; not them being involved but the conclusion John feared everyone was coming to because they had so quickly. That Ardent was after Harold for his money.

“Harold, they think I’m using you!” John stated what he knew to be true. “I over heard Leon talking to Detective Fusco through the com-link...I guess they thought they were in private mode...No matter though how I heard them: it’s what they were talking about. They think Ardent is using his resemblance to John Reese and perfecting it as a way to scam you.”

“That's absurd. Why would they believe that?” Harold asked completely dumbfounded.

John held held up his forefinger gesturing _just a minute_. He gave a quick look through the camera lens. The number had went into her office and was immersed in updating her notes for the medical records transcribers; he could halt his observation of the number for a while: the doctor was meticulous and would be occupied for hours.

John pulled up the extra chair and straddled it backwards placing his arms on the back of the chair. Harold Finch armed, holster leather strapped to his torso, butt of the gun waiting dangerously in the holster at his side was a damn fucking turn on and a huge distraction. The chair he hoped would serve as a buffer.

“Finch,” John started out “I know some of my predecessors weren’t the most scrupulous individuals. So, why wouldn’t Leon assume Evan Ardent is a gold-digger taking advantage of your feelings for Evan because he reminds you of Reese? Besides everyone involved in the mission now respected John Reese and well, are protective of you.”

John shrugged, “I wouldn’t care what they think because we know the truth. But if they believe Ardent is only playing everyone, especially you, how can they trust him? Depend on him out in the field?” John drummed the back of the chair, “That is the problem.”

Harold nodded in understanding, “We can’t tell them the truth. They would really believe you are enchanting me.” He turned back to his laptop, “I have an idea…”

***

John ended the third call from Harold that day. He was back in Italy with Grace. Grace Hendricks had needed to have surgery to remove a mass on one of her lungs and Harold was really the only family she had, so he had flown to Rome on the red eye to be with her.

Harold and he had been disappointed having to spend their first Christmas apart after being reunited, only Harold had told him not long after they had how supportive Harold’s former fiance had been in helping Finch overcoming his substance abuse. How could he be selfish, keep Harold to himself, and leave Grace to go through her ordeal alone.

The last call had been Harold calling sounding relieved; the tumor was benign. Grace was already moved to a regular room; Harold was in there now, “Grace is going to be fine; I’ll be back in New York in a few days. She is quite adamant that I go home.” There was a muffled voice in the background speaking, Harold said, “ Just a second she wants to speak to you.”

“Hello, Evan.” Grace said tiredly. “Harold has told me _everything_ about you. Please take good care of him for me.”

There was silence and then Harold was speaking again, “I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel, after I’ve made arrangements for my return flight. Love you.” The call ended as soon as John returned the sentiment.

“Well Lionel, you ready to go in and break the news to Shaw?” John said as he returned his cell phone to his jacket pocket.

With help from Earnest he had been able to track down his one-time _Mayhem Twin_. He had brought the detective along as backup and witness to the incredible story he was about to tell her.

***

A man answered the door and it was obvious from the look on his face they had interrupted...something. John asked politely even though the guy was glaring at him, “Does Sameen Shaw live here?”

His glare turned to total surprise, he looked back inside the apartment and back at them, “I think you better come in.”

Sameen was standing in the arch that divided kitchen from living area holding a gun aimed right at them. Her eyes widened when she saw Fusco and she lowered the gun a bit, “Hey Lionel, long time no see. Now who's your friend here?”

John was about to introduce himself when a bolt of brown burst into the room and knocked him to the floor.

They wrestled like that on the worn carpet of Shaw’s drab apartment, John laughing the whole time. When the dog began to tire, sitting on its haunches panting, John sat up with his back against the door and looked over at Shaw. “My name is Evan Ardent, but you used to know me as John Reese and Bear here is **my** dog!”

An hour later and after a lot of coaxing from both Lionel and Shaw’s boyfriend/partner, Shane, they were sitting in the living room on the couch and in chairs. John had just finished retelling the white lie Finch had come up with explaining how John Reese became Evan Ardent. He had already told her about what had happened after Harold and he had split up with Shaw and Fusco in the Subway HQ.

The story about Evan Ardent went— John had been saved just moments before the missile strike by other assets of the Machine and taken to an unknown location to be treated for his injuries – he was in critical condition but alive. When he was allowed to leave the private clinic months later healed of his gunshot wounds, he had left with a new name and new face. The CIA was hot on John Reese’s tail again; the agency had wanted him dead once, had discovered he was still alive, and ordered him eliminated without prejudice. The reason the Machine had set up the plastic surgery before it had went offline.

With the fate of The Machine and its creator unknown, with no numbers being sent, its people were in limbo. John had decided to return to New York City to look for Finch. After months of futile searching, in the end it had been Harold who had found him. As Shaw and her partner Shane or other operatives started receiving the relevant numbers again, Harold, John and other assets of The Machine were getting the irrelevant numbers. Both sides were working in secret this time.

Shaw made a token protest when John called Bear to him as they got up to leave. She might have doubted Ardent’s claim to be John Reese, even with Lionel backing him up, but she trusted the dog.  

“Tell Finch, hi for me and that I’m glad he’s alive,” was all she said. John/Evan nodded, commanded Bear _heir,_ and walked out the door.

Fusco handed her a business card – _The Library_ , its address, the phone number to call for reservations – was embossed on it. Bring your friend there some night. You can tell Glasses yourself: he owns the place.

***

Harold followed John into the loft, one more time saying, “I just want to sit on the couch with you, watch the ball drop at Times square on the television, and drink some of this non-alcoholic champagne Leon handed me before he shooed us out the door.”

They had stopped at the club on the way home from the airport just to check on things; the staff on duty had things well in hand even though the place was packed full of boisterous New Year’s Eve revelers.

John helped Finch out of his coat, took off his, and told Harold to go sit down. “I’m going to get us some flutes for the champagne out of the kitchen cabinet.”

Harold called after him, “Hurry John. It’s nearly midnight.”

John opened the pantry door; Bear scrabbled up excitedly but quieted immediately when John gave him the hand signal. The dogs ears pointed up as he heard his beloved Harold’s voice and whined. John pointed out the door and moved to one side. _Vor Uit!_

“Bear!” Harold squawked when the Malinois bolted out of the kitchen toenails scratching over the wooden floor. He was so overjoyed to see the dog, he didn’t think to order him off the sofa when Bear jumped on it next to him, he just flung his arms around Bear’s neck. He didn’t even care when his glasses went flying as Bear started lapping at his face with a slobbery wet tongue.

John waited a moment before he followed. Neither Harold or Bear noticed John standing over them at first, the two were so caught up in their reunion. It was Bear's happy yip his way that caused Harold to look up.

“Merry Christmas Harold,” John said before he eased onto the couch next to Bear. He circled his long arms around them both trapping their dog between them.

Times Square, the champagne, and ringing in the New Year at midnight were forgotten until long after the ball dropped.

“Happy New Year John.”

“Happy New Year Harold.”

“Woof!”

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone  
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> The numbers never stop coming  
> The Machine is watching over the people of the world.  
> Thousands of Johns, Harolds, Fuscos, Shaws, Shanes,  
> are doing their best to keep us safe  
> Oh Bear says many of him too


End file.
